Steele Cold Facts
by RSteele82
Summary: (HOW Series) What if Laura's sprained ankle, wasn't as serious as first thought, and she surprised Remington at Aspen Chalet? An unexpected blizzard strands them in a small cabin, where they finally cross that line. After Remington's plan nearly costs them the Agency, she questions if moving their personal relationship ahead was a mistake. (Pt 1 of 3)
1. Chapter 1

_**(An ITCHy Story)**_

 _ **There's not a single series to be found in these stories, only what if's and could have been's, that give rise to some interesting thoughts, occasional angst, some surprising honesty and a lot of romance.**_

 _ **Fractured Steele (Post Steeled with a Kiss Pt II)  
A Holt in the Heart (Takes place during and after Woman of Steele)  
Threadbare Steele (Takes place during and after Steele Threads - for RS Fan 17)  
Steele in Her Heart (Alternate ending to Steele of Approval - for Steele86)  
Steele Going At It (Takes place after Have I Got A Steele For You - for MM33 and Elinskaja)  
Steeling A Little Romance (Not tied to an episode - Merry Christmas one and all)  
Steele Cold Facts (Takes during Season – for steelegogo83)**_

 _ **As always, I do not own characters or show. I simply borrow the characters because they've been in my heart for 35 years now.**_

* * *

 _ **A/N: There have long been rumors – which make a great deal of sense – that Season 3 of Remington Steele was broadcast out of the order it was meant to appear onscreen. There is a document out there, which, based on various factors, shows the final three episodes of Season 3 should have been Illustrated Steele, Diced Steele and, finally, Steele of Approval. This story follows that premise.**_

 _ **Title courtesy of Steelefan2018.**_

 _ **Steelegogo83, this one is for you.**_

* * *

Chapter 1

Laura heaved a sigh and stared at the bandaged ankle propped on the corner of her desk. Mr. Steele and Mildred had departed for the airport three hours before. In forty-five minutes or so, their plane should be landing in Colorado.

The plane _she_ should have been on… had _planned_ to be on. Hell, it was the trip _she_ had, in fact, planned, down to the last detail.

She'd known perfectly well he was manipulating her with that little message Mildred had asked her to pass along to him.

* * *

" _ **Seems, uh, Aspen has just received five inches of fresh powder over an eight foot packed base."**_

* * *

If she'd any doubt he was scheming, again, to get her alone far away from Los Angeles and the Agency, well his implied dare had said it all.

* * *

" _ **I'd love to invite you, Laura. But I couldn't bear the disappointment."**_

" _ **What makes you think you'd be disappointed?**_

" _ **Past history. I mean, every time we've planned a few uninterrupted moments together, a case interferes."**_

" _ **You don't think I'm capable of having fun, do you?"**_

" _ **I didn't intimate that. It's just that your idea of a vacation is coming back late from lunch."**_

" _ **I could shut down the Agency just like that."**_

" _ **Yes, but you never would."**_

" _ **I wouldn't?"**_

" _ **No."**_

" _ **When this case is done, I will close the office down for a week, send Mildred on a vacation and we'll hit the slopes. You want to have fun? I'll show you fun."**_

* * *

The problem with a dare, is that it isn't a dare if the person it's issued to has been itching for a way to make up for his little ploy to lure her away to San Francisco. So, she'd planned meticulously. Open ended, round-trip, first class tickets to Aspen. Lift tickets. Separate but equal, _adjoining_ rooms, should it seem the time was right to cross that line.

Oh, he'd had a bit of fun with it all, at her expense, of course, reminding her at every opportunity she'd never follow through.

* * *

" _ **Dragging your feet a bit, aren't we? Not afraid we might have to wrap this case up and you'll actually have to follow through on your vacation plans, are we?"**_

* * *

She'd smugly opened her purse and handed him the plane tickets, proof she'd no intention of backing out.

And still, he managed, to get another dig, another dare in.

* * *

" _ **Open return. Impressive. But I'm afraid the jury's still out. I won't be convinced until I see you making snow angels in Aspen."**_

* * *

Oh, she'd planned to make him eat his words.

Then she'd taken that tumble down the stairs, twisting her ankle. Sending Mildred with him to Aspen had been a bit of mischief on her part, a little jab of her own, even. If he thought he was going to pick up snow bunnies on her dime, he had another thing coming and she'd sent Mildred along as insurance. She'd enjoyed the semi-horrified look on his face, when she'd announced Mildred would be accompanying him.

But, in the end, he'd technically gotten in the final word.

* * *

" _ **Yes, well, another missed opportunity, Miss Holt. Looks like we're never going to get together, doesn't it?"**_

* * *

The words had been repeating in her head since he and Mildred had left, so much so, that she'd not gotten a bit of work done.

She pursed her lips and gave her ankle an experimental turn. Annoying, but not painful, at least not since she'd taken a half tablet of the Tylenol-3 she'd been prescribed. She thrummed her fingers on her desk. Then, with a 'may as well give it the old college try' shrug of her shoulders, she cautiously stood up, allowing half her weight to rest on the injured ankle… then three-quarters… then all of it. With a lift of her brows, she thought, _Go for it._ She walked to the end of her office, then back again, before plopping down in her chair and propping her ankle back up on the corner of the desk. Stroking her throat in thought, she stared at her ankle in contemplation.

This wasn't the first time she given her ankle a good twist. In she'd done so a half dozen times in the past, and only twice had her ankle swelled significantly. She had no swelling now.

Her brows furrowed as she continue to regard the injured joint.

That first shooting pain was by far the worst of the pain, but generally speaking, within half a day the continued throbbing would be reduced a dull, occasionally nagging, ache. Which would mean….

By morning, with a good, neoprene ankle brace, and the automatic support ski boots offered, skiing should be a…" She snapped her fingers, a dimple smile lighting her face.

 _I'll show you snow angels, Mr. Steele._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Rinsing off his razor, Remington tapped it on the side of the sink then laid it on the counter to dry. Running a hand over cheeks and chin, he gave the quick shave his approval and dried his face with the nearby towel. A couple of pats of aftershave later and he left the bathroom, retrieving his turtleneck from where it lay on the bed in wait of him. Tugging it over his head and tucking in, he sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his ski boots, his mind wandering, as it had much of the prior evening before he called it an early night.

He'd baited Laura into a trip to Aspen, that was true enough. It seemed the fates were determined they would never spend some true, quality time alone together, where business or the outside world, in general, couldn't interrupt… or be use as a buffer between them. Over the years she'd dismissed, out of hand, his numerous invitations for a vacation to one exotic locale or another. The one trip she'd accepted, a brief visit to Catalina, had, of course, been foiled by business in the form of Mildred's nephew, Bernard, and his hooker friend, Clarissa. Then had come the disastrous European tour with her Glee Club alumni association, his own actions demolishing any chance at finally consummating this relationship of theirs, while leaving their personal relationship in ruins.

By the time the thaw began, he'd grown almost desperate to have her, at length, wholly to himself, going so far as to devise a fake case in San Francisco. Thwarted again, when that fake case became a real one. A suggestion of a Hawaiian vacation had been shockingly accepted, only for yet another case… then the damnable weather… to interfere.

He'd finally come to the conclusion, the only way he'd steal her away was by forcing her own hand. For there were two things Laura Holt had absolutely no ability to resist: A case and a dare.

God knew, the woman certainly could resist _him_.

He'd truly begun to believe his little gambit had worked. She'd officially closed the office for a week – _a full, glorious week!_ – had purchased round trip, open return tickets, lift tickets, ski's, ski wear.

Then once more providence had enjoyed a good laugh at his expense with her fall down the stairs. A gimpy ankle, his nemesis this time.

Thus, here he was… alone.

Again.

Well, if one didn't consider Mildred, who was currently ensconced in Laura's room, a floor below his own. As much as he adored his motherly figure, the simple fact of the matter was: She wasn't Laura.

By the time he and Mildred had arrived last evening, he'd mulled himself into a solid sulk – a sulk only worsened at check-in when the clerk announced their room assignments. So, a trip it was to be, but with no plans to further this relationship, those reservations had fairly screamed.

His mood had spiraled further downwards.

Until he recalled her words to him at the Devil's Playground.

* * *

" _ **Do you know how romantic, how exciting, how much fun it would have been sneaking into one another's rooms?"**_

* * *

His mood had perked up at that memory. Oh, he'd had an enjoyable time, for a spell, indulging the fantasies that memory had inspired. Laura, knocking softly at his door, wrapped in one of those dowdy robes she seemed to favor; slowly untying the sash, once the door closed behind her, then allowing the garment to slowly fall to the floor, revealing a silk and lace gown that clung to the curves of her luscious little body.

He, charming a desk clerk out of the key to her room, sneaking in, and waking her in the most tantalizing of ways.

Mmmm, yes, he'd had a wonderful time for a bit indulging himself in those fantasies…

Until his body had reminded him what a useless… and frustrating… endeavor it was. And a perpetually frustrated libido, such as his own, could only take so much.

So, he'd retired to the open gathering area just past the lobby. With a good brandy in hand, he sat before the fire, pondering his plans for the following day. True enough, he'd attracted his share of attention from women whom would have once whetted his appetite: the tall, willowy brunette; the voluptuous blonde; the well-endowed, tiny wasted raven haired beauty, amongst others. He'd offered not a one of them encouragement, for he'd long ago discovered the only woman that could possibly sate the gnawing need in his gut was a petite brunette, with expressive brown eyes, enticing freckles and captivating temper.

So, rather than participate in further polite but disinterested conversation, he'd taken himself off to bed.

With a sigh, and a sweep of splayed hand over his face, he stood and shrugged the suspenders of his ski pants over his shoulders, then grabbed the matching jacket off the chair by the door. He looked around the room a final time then departed. The hour was earlier than he normally preferred, but he liked to hit the slopes while the powder was fresh. After a few hours of schussing the slopes, he'd indulge in a good lunch someplace warm. And from there? He'd allow the day to decide how it played out on its own.

But first, a strong cup of tea and good breakfast.

He spied Mildred across the dining room when he entered. Even if he hadn't, her call to him and wave would certainly have caught his attention.

"Boss! Over here!"

Crossing the room, he leaned down and bussed her on the cheek.

"Good morning, darling," he greeted. "Up and about early, are you?"

"First ski class at eight," she smiled, as she took a bite of her nearly finished breakfast. "I warned those characters at the desk I better not find myself stuck in a class full of children, too." She pointed her fork at him for emphasis, then paused when the waitress arrived and he gave his order. "Turns out," she picked right back off, as though they'd never been interrupted, "They have a class for sen-… adults, which all but guarantees I'll be on the easier slopes by tomorrow afternoon." She took another bite of her food, then lay her fork on the plate and shoved it away. "What about you, Boss? What's on your calendar for the day?"

"Thought I'd take a few runs down the green slopes of Ajax this morning," he replied, using the local lingo for Aspen Mountain. "Once I get my legs under me, I'll try my hand at some of the blue." He shrugged a careless shoulder. "After that, we'll just see how the day plays out." Mildred stood and dropped her napkin on the table, then picked up her tab.

"Maybe we'll catch up to one another tonight, then." A wicked grin spread across her face. "Unless I meet someone." She gave him a waggled of her brows that left him chuckling as she departed.

He wolfed down his food when it arrived, anxious not only to get on the slopes but to put an end to the waves, smiles and coy glances from both women he'd met the evening prior and ones he'd not seen before.

And, when not politely dismissing those trying to garner his attention, his thoughts were on a certain young woman back in LA, wondering what she might be doing right now and how very different things would be if she were there with him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Laura jogged in place and clapped her gloved hands together, trying to get warm. _How long can it take a man to eat breakfast?,_ she groused to herself.

She'd arrived just after midnight, mountain time, the evening before. Requesting a five-thirty wake-up call at the front desk, she hadn't even bothered unpacking more than her toothbrush, before tumbling into bed. Sleep had been elusive, however, as she'd found herself imagining any number of versions of how Mr. Steele might react to her appearance. When sleep had arrived, it had been brief, but still she'd awakened with a smile on her face. Dialing room service, she'd ordered breakfast, then had showered and dressed for the day. Fifteen minutes after she'd heard Mr. Steele's door open and shut, she'd taken the elevator to the second floor, the staircase to the lobby, then had slipped outside to wait for him, unseen.

 _Finally_!, she celebrated, when she finally saw her target moving towards the lobby doors. She took the position she'd identified when she'd first come outside. _One, two, three._ She free-fell, landing on her in the snow, and began fanning her arms and legs while keeping her eyes on the twin lobby doors.

Remington stepped outside, while pulling on his gloves and quickly scanned the area, seeking the shuttle which would carry him and his equipment to the lifts. Spying it, he began walking towards it, only for his long stride to stutter to a stop when a glimpse of blue and pink caught his eyes. Slowly, he turned, convinced his imagination was playing tricks on him. A slow grin, lit his face.

"It seems an angel has fallen from the heavens," he commented, as Laura, from where she lay in the snow, smiled up at him with a jaunty quirk of her brow.

"You _did_ say you wouldn't be convinced until you saw me making snow angels," she quipped. His grin widened, his pearly whites flashing, as he chuckled.

"So I did," he confirmed. Bending over, he offered her a hand and hauled her to her feet. "And if I do say so myself, this particular snow angel is a true masterpiece." He watched as she cleaned the snow off her backside, desperately wishing it were his hands doing the deed instead of her own. He gave his head a mental shake. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Miss Holt, but last I recall you were looking forward to a… stimulating… week of filing."

"I wouldn't exactly say _looking forward to,_ " she answered, elongating the last three words. "More like, resigned to," she corrected.

"Care to tell me what inspired this sudden change of mind?" he wondered, while Laura collected her skis and poles from the ski rack.

"Simple logic," she shrugged. "I've twisted my ankle half dozen time. More often than not, it was nothing more than an annoyance the next day. So, since a few hours had passed and it was barely bothering me any longer, I figured 'What the hell… Go for it.'"

"A bit of the old Laura Holt at work? Hmmmm?" She flashed him a dimpled smile and shrugged a casual shoulder.

"No," she replied, then drew in a breath before lifting her eyes to meet his. "I was looking forward to this trip, so, here I am." Leaning down, he touched his lips to her cheek.

"And I'm so happy that you are," he whispered next to her ear before standing to his full height. He gave her ankle a pointed look. "Are you certain it can withstand the rigors of the slopes?" She held up her foot and tried to wriggle the ankle.

"Good ankle brace, coupled with the ski boot, seems to be more than adequate support," she answered, seeming unconcerned. "The only way to know will be to give it a try. What do you say?" With another smile, he held out his arm towards the shuttle.

"After you, Miss Holt."

* * *

Laura collapsed on a couch in the gathering room, a smile lighting her face – a smile that she'd seemed incapable of erasing all morning. She may have felt foolish, if not for the fact Remington appeared to suffer from the same affliction, as well - grinning at her even now, as he took a close to the opposite end of the couch from her.

"Let's have a look at the ankle, shall we?" he suggested, already lifting her foot into his lap.

They'd spent the morning skiing the green slopes, only tackling a blue run right before they broke for lunch. To say he'd been impressed with her skill was an understatement. Depending on how her ankle held up, he decided, he might try to sway her to tackle a combination cross country and downhill course he'd heard about not an hour away from the Aspen Chalet. It had been years since he'd put on a pair of skis, but there was a long period in his life when he'd take the time for a bit of schussing a few times a year. Granted, those holidays were often as much about the sheer number of available women as they had been about the powder, but skiing had always been a sport he'd truly enjoyed. The rush of adrenaline, the feeling of accomplishment, after navigating a particularly tricky black diamond run, was nearly as satisfying as sex. He suspected the same might be said about the course he had in mind.

He dropped her boot to the floor, before his hands returned to her foot, searching for any tenderness. She hummed, then adjusted herself until she reclined on the couch, her head laying against the armrest.

"That feels _wonderful_ ," she praised, closing her eyes and slinging an arm over them.

"Glad to be of help," he murmured, smiling at her, unseen, before looking downwards to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Boss?!" Mildred called, her voice filled with disappointment, a look of dejection on her face as she hustled across the room. "We haven't even been here twenty-four hours and here you are with another woman!" His brows raised, eyes rounded in surprise as she spoke, while Laura tried not to laugh. "What about poor Miss Holt?" She turned her head towards Laura, just as Laura dropped her arm from over her face. "Miss Holt!" Mildred exclaimed, voice raised in surprise. "When did you get here?"

"Around midnight," she answered, a bemused smile on her face. She wasn't quite sure which she'd enjoyed more: Mildred's attempt to defend her honor, so to speak, or the look of insult on his face right now.

"But… I thought… you said… your ankle!" Mildred's head swung in the direction of her foot.

"It had stopped bothering me, for the most part, a few hours you left," she explained even as she winced when Remington's fingers found a tender spot in said ankle. "So, here I am."

"With the Boss taking good care of you, I see," Mildred noted, reaching out to squeeze Remington's chin fondly, an apology offered for what she'd believed was happening.

"How were the lessons, Mildred?" he questioned, blithely moving past the accusation and apology.

"Most of me survived," she answered ruefully, dramatically reaching back and rubbing her amble bottom, drawing laughter from them both. With a couple of pats to the bottom of Laura's foot, he reached for her boot.

"Care to join us for lunch?" he invited.

"Sure. My next lesson is in an hour," she agreed. "But I don't want to be late. I may have my eye on someone," she shared with a wink.

"Really?" Laura drew out the word, as she took Remington's hand and allowed him to help her to her feet.

"I might. Oh, Miss Holt, who'd have ever thought _skiing lessons_ were a better place to meet single men my own age than the bowling alley? And I gotta tell you…"

The pair followed Mildred to the dining room, as she prattled on, Remington's hand resting lightly at the small of Laura's back. Glancing down at her, he couldn't help but acknowledge how much the day had turned around for him when first caught sight of her lying in the snow.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Three days later, that smile remained on Laura's face. She hadn't been so relaxed in…. she couldn't even remember how long. Attributable, no doubt, to the fresh, brisk air; the endorphins fueled by hours of exercise each day; great meals…. And her Mr. Steele. They'd gotten on remarkably well, not a single fight save their normal banter and baiting. He'd been beyond attentive… and caring, so much so that the evening before she'd propped herself up on her elbows as he massaged her tired feet and healing ankle.

"You're always trying to take care of me," she remarked, thoughtfully, as though it was something to marvel at: someone wishing to care for her. His eyes flicked from her foot, to her face, then back to her foot again.

"I do what you'll allow me to do," he acknowledged, cautiously, looking up at her through his lashes. She cocked her head, her brown eyes studying what she could see of his face.

"Why?"

"Because I happen to enjoy doing so." She flopped back down on the bed and fingered her throat. It was quite the thought to ponder.

"Huh."

Was all she had said, letting the topic go before either of them became too uncomfortable.

A tap sounded on the open door between her and Remington's room.

"Ready?" he inquired. She looked up at him from where stood next to the bed, zipping closed a stuffed backpack, and smiled at him. "Good Lord, Laura," he commented with horror, "We're going on a cross country trek, not a week's long expedition."

"A twenty-four mile trek that will take most of the day," she countered. "I've _only_ packed the basic necessities recommended by Explorer Scouts everywhere for prolonged periods of physical activity in unknown terrain." She picked up a second backpack from where it sat on the floor and handed it to him. "Lunch. Club sandwiches, a thermos of vegetable soup, fruit, a bottle of wine, and blanket." He took the bag, with an appreciative look, and slung it over his shoulder. "Shall we get on with it, Mr. Steele?"

"After you, Miss Holt."

* * *

Remington surreptitiously watched Laura as she spread the blanket out over a rock outcropping, one of the few dry areas available to them on the snow-covered landscape they'd been traversing. The last four days had been… remarkable. He could not quite recall Laura ever being so relaxed. Smiles that displayed her dazzling dimples had been frequent. Her brown eyes had glimmered with unconcealed happiness. All those walls held up with steel girders, had almost been completely absent. She kissed him with less restraint, initiating those kisses with more frequency. She touched him more often: brushing back the lock of hair off his forehead, caressing his cheek, feathering her fingers over the back of his hand.

She'd even willingly gotten horizontal with him last evening, drawing his lean frame over hers, as her hands had wandered over his back, shoulders and arms freely. He hadn't even bothered to hide the proof of his desire from her, as he so often did. He'd simply reveled in the taste of her skin against his tongue, as his mouth had roamed, explored, the long column of her neck. He'd just about worked up the nerve to reach for a breast – a move that had always resulted in her skittering away – when she'd called it a night.

Still, they'd made long strides in his opinion. Long… glorious… strides.

She looked up at him from where she was kneeling on the blanket beside the spread of food she'd laid out.

"Coming?" The corner of his mouth involuntarily quirked upwards at her choice of word.

"Of course," he agreed. Her eyes followed him as he stretched out on his side on the blanket, propping himself on an elbow, as he reached for half of a sandwich. She hasn't missed that quirk of his lips and was bemused by it. It wasn't as though she hadn't fantasized frequently herself these last days about finally experiencing that ultimate pleasure with him. Alright, had fantasized _more frequently_ , for he'd been the subject of her active imagination for years.

And, she suspected, if things continued as they'd been going these last days, they would cross that proverbial line at the bedroom door before they returned to LA. That is, if he'd get on with it already, and make a real move. After all, she'd made the first move and Cannes, and, oh boy, lesson learned on that one. Mr. Steele had made it _very clear_ that he not only wanted, needed… but _demanded_ … an equal voice on when they'd finally consummate this relationship.

"Laura… _Lau-ra…_ " She blinked hard, wondered how long he'd been trying to get her attention.

"Huh?"

" _I asked_ , did you check the weather forecast for today?" He tilted his head back to look upward at the grey masses forming above. "The skies seem… ominous." She looked upwards as well, then unconcernedly reached for the thermos and unscrewed the top.

"I did. Flurries on and off this afternoon. The real snow won't begin to fall until after eight." She poured the soup into to cups from the backpack and handed him one.

"I have to admit, Laura, I never thought we'd manage to get here," he told her, as he accepted the cup from her.

"We're only at the half-way point, Mr. Steele," she reminded him, "The most difficult part of this outing is still ahead of us. A half dozen downhill—"

"That's not what I meant," he interrupted quietly, a pair of intense blue eyes leveling on her. She cocked her head in answer.

"What do you mean?"

"You, I. A long holiday. Together." She studied his face, considered briefly a glib comment, then chose to be honest instead.

"I know what you mean," she concurred. "It's seems something has always managed to get in our way. You. Me," She bobbed her head at the last admission.

"A case," he added pointedly, with a lift of his brows.

"A case," she nodded, then took a bite from her own sandwich, her brown eyes still examining him. She dared a little more honesty. "I'm glad we're here." He reached for her hand, bussed the knuckles, his eyes not leaving hers.

"As am I." A shiver rippled over her skin and her eyes heated. This time it was he who backed away. He cocked a brow at her. "Mildred seems to be enjoying herself."

"I'll say," she laughed.

"She's certainly keeping her options open," he observed, his warm laughter joining hers. Mildred had enjoyed dinner with three different men in the last three days, and they'd agreed to join her and her choice du jour for dinner and drinks that evening.

"Taking a page from your own book?" she teased. Her eyes widened and lips parted in surprise at the flash of injury, then insult that passed through his eyes, although the careless smile remained on his face.

"If so, she's reading a few chapters back," he replied, taking care to sound casual. The smile in his eyes, on his lips, was quite real when she nervously sat up and stared out over the horizon.

"The view's beautiful." And it was, the rock outcropping hanging far above the valley formed by mountains to the west and north. Remington shifted the remnants of lunch aside and sat up next to her.

"It is most certainly that," he hummed, as he cupped her neck and stroked it. His lips covered hers when she turned to look at him. The kiss was hot, powerful, verging on possessive… and completely lacking his normal restraint. She hummed against his lips, dragged her fingers through his hair, her inhibitions forgotten. She went willingly the ground when he eased her to her back, stretching his long, lean frame out alongside her. Her fingers flexed against his scalp as his lips left hers, to taste the tender skin of her neck while his hand rhythmically stroked her side from hips to ribs, then back again. His mouth returned to hers for another decadent kiss. Her hand swept down his back and over his well-clad bottom, sending a jolt of pure desire coursing through him and setting his body instantly on edge. He tore his mouth from hers and stared down at her.

"When are we going to stop this insanity and simply admit we wish to be together?" he gasped. The intensity of the emotions she saw in his eyes both terrified and electrified her. She closed her eyes, drew in her lips. _This is it. Go for it, Holt._ Opening her eyes, she palmed his cheek and gave him a jaunty look even as her heart pounded against her ribs.

"Just been waiting for you to catch up, Mr. Steele," she drawled. "After all, we want to make sure you have 'some small say in the matter.'" His eyes narrowed and brows furrowed, as her last words niggled at something in the back of his mind. When it came to him, he laughed loudly, and claimed her lips in another torrid kiss, that left her staring up at him, dazedly, when he ended it.

"Laura, you're the only woman I know who would bring up Cannes at a time like this." She lifted a pert brow at him.

"I just want to make sure you feel involved," she retorted with a smile. He leaned in for another kiss, his eyes holding hers.

"Oh, I assure you, I intend to be…" he brushed his lips against hers "…very…" he briefly caressed them with his "… _very_ …." Then longer "…involved." He fastened his mouth to hers, sliding a hand beneath her head to press their lips more firmly together, as his tongue swirled around hers in decadent kiss. Her fingers clutched at his hair, his back, until she tore her mouth from his.

"I admire your dedication, Mr. Steele," she smiled up at him, then ruffed his hair, her eyes leaving his and looking pointedly up at the sky. "It's snowing," she observed. He tore his eyes away from her face and turned his head to look upwards.

"So it is." His disinterest apparent, as he faced her again, then leaned in for another kiss. He made a sour face at the ground, when she rolled away from him.

"We'd better be on our way," she suggested, still a bit breathless, as she began packing up the scattered debris of their lunch. Reluctantly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position to assist, his heart skipping a beat when a pair of molten brown eyes met his. "The sooner we finish this trek, the sooner we can turn our attention to… other things." His tongue flicked, unconsciously, hungrily, at his lips, his eyes darkening with unhidden designer.

"That's what I love about you, Miss Holt: The way you've always your eye on the prize." He surprised her with a final, quick kiss, then they worked jointly to pack up their impromptu picnic area.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"I thought you said a few flurries, Laura," Remington shouted to be heard over the wind howling through the trees.

"That's what the weather report said," she shouted back, swiping at her goggles again, trying to see through the driving snow. "I don't think we're on the trail any longer."

"How can you tell?" He waved an arm aimlessly at the landscape around them, indicating the copses of pine trees protruding from a sea of snow.

"I haven't seen a sign or flag in nearly half an hour. Have you?" He searched his memory, didn't like the answer found there.

"No," he answered, reluctantly. "Now what?"

"How should I know?" she retorted.

"You don't have anything in that bag of tricks of yours?" he asked, hopefully.

"The downside of a compass, Mr. Steele, is that you need to know the direction of where you want to be relative to where you are. We have no idea!" He rubbed a gloved hand across his mouth.

"Well, one thing's for certain, we'll either catch our death of cold or freeze to death unless we find shelter."

"The valley," she called back to him.

"Valley? _What_ valley, Laura? All I see are trees, snow, and a rather daunting incline ahead of us!" he pointed out.

"From lunch. It was to the west," she explained, "And I saw several small cabins scattered throughout it. Hunting cabins, would be my guess."

"And south," he reminded her. "That valley was a very vertical half mile dead south, with nary a way to get there that I saw."

"Well, do you have a better idea?" she challenged. Clearing off his goggles again, he slowly turned around looking for another option, then rubbed at his mouth again.

"No," he admitted. Tugging off her backpack, she stepped out of her skis then dropped to her knees to root through it, pulling out that spoken of compass. Swiping at her goggles again, she peered down at the device, then stood and pulled her backpack on again while stepping back on her skis, the snick of the latches locking unheard over the wind.

"This way," she pointed northwest of the direction they currently face. "And, take care, Mr. Steele. I wouldn't want you to fall off any cliffs. I have plans I'm looking forward to of which you're an integral part." A wide smile spread across his face.

"No worries, Miss Holt. I'll just follow your lead. You always seem to get us to where we're going."

She looked back over her shoulder at him and bestowed him with a dimpled smile, before turning back around to focus on the terrain ahead of them.

* * *

"Who the bloody hell locks a cabin in the middle of sodding nowhere?" Remington demanded to know, as he peeled off his gloves, while Laura dug through her bag for something suitable to use as a lock pick. Finally, she shoved a pair of bobby pins at him.

"It's the best I can do," she apologized.

"It'll work."

And they did, although not easily between hands that tremored from the cold and the inadequate tools. When at last the lock disengaged, they kicked the snow that had drifted against the door away. With a tug, the door opened, and he unceremoniously shoved her through the entrance, following quickly behind, then slamming and locking the door behind him. He blew on his hands, trying to warm them, as she tried the light switches.

"No power," she noted.

"The fireplace should do nicely. They've loaded a fair amount of wood in," he nodded his head in the direction of the hearth. "Not quite so convenient as the one at the flat, but it'll suffice. Can you look around, see if you can find any matches?" he asked, as peeled off his ski jacket. Hanging the jacket on a peg rack by the door, he knelt before the fireplace and chose a suitable size log to begin the fire.

"I have some in my bag," she answered. Pulling off her own jacket and hanging it up, she dropped her backpack on a sheet covered sofa and opened it while he located a magazine in a side table and began tearing out the pages. Back in front of the fireplace, he crumbled those pages, stacking them under and around the log to act as kindling. "Here." She shoved the box of matches at him, then sat down on the couch to remove her boots, then socks. As the paper caught fire, Remington began to do likewise.

"Leastwise if we hang some of these things near the fire, they'll be dry soon enough."

Once they'd located the valley, they'd been forced to leave their skis on the trail above. The treacherous, downward climb, had taken the better part of an hour… locating a shelter another hour and a half, the snowstorm never abating. Their outwear had offered much needed protection from the elements, but hadn't prevented snow from filling their boots, or soaking their turtlenecks. Setting her boots and socks on the hearth, Laura stripped off her snow pants, hanging them at the door, then with a shrug peeled off her turtleneck, leaving her in a long sleeve insulated shirt, and long johns. In her estimation, practicality was a necessity… and he'd seen her in far less than this in the past. Of much the same mind, he too stripped down.

Rummaging through her backpack again, she removed the small transistor radio she'd purchased the afternoon before. Turning it on, she scoured for a channel, finally finding one that offered soft jazz… and hopefully a weather update. As he searched the kitchenette of the one room cabin for anything that might come of use, she visited the small bathroom, saying a prayer of thanks that the plumbing seemed operational and it was well stocked for when the cabin's owners returned. A cedar chest gave up two thick quilts as well as a full box of taper candles.

"I'm guessing the cabin frequently loses power," she called to him in the kitchen.

"I was thinking the same," he answered, nodding at the bounty of candles and candleholders he'd found in a cabinet in the kitchen. "I do have a bit of good news. The stove is gas, and in working condition."

"You wouldn't have happened to find food to cook on that stove, would you?" she asked drily, as she removed the sheet from the couch then tossed the blankets on it. Sitting down, she began emptying the contents of the backpacks onto the coffee table.

"Slim pickings, I'm afraid, and I don't believe whoever usually inhabits this dwelling understands the importance of diversity in food, at all." He held up a pair of cans. "Six cans of something called 'Dinty Moore Beef Stew'," he said the words with marked suspicion, "A can of tomato soup, that's within date, two boxes of biscuit mix and a small jar of Folger's instant coffee."

"We still have a full sandwich, half a thermos of vegetable soup, the fruit and wine," she ticked off, as she lined the items up on the table, "Along with two bags of trail mix, crackers, peanut butter, and four bottles of water."

"More than enough to carry us through this storm, I should think," he answered optimistically, sitting down next to her on the sofa. Picking up a blanket, he wrapped it around her, then did the same for himself with the second. "How's the ankle?" He'd noticed she was favoring it the last half of their hike to the cabin.

"Sore," she admitted. There had been a couple of precarious jumps on their way down the side of the mountain which had jarred her ankle pretty good, but it was the weight of the snow as they trudged through it that finally left it steadily throbbing.

"Let's have it then," he ordered, adjusting himself to lean against the armrest of the couch opposite from her. He knew 'sore' was likely an understatement when she lay down and presented the foot without even a token argument. His belief was confirmed when she drew in a sharp breath as his fingers probed.

They both turned their heads towards the radio as the tones indicating a weather statement sounded from the radio.

'… _Two fronts have collided, and the winter storm has stalled. Prior predictions of six to eight inches overnight are now expected to produce between sixteen and eighteen inches of snow. Sustained winds overnight of fifteen to twenty miles per hour, with gusts up to thirty-five. Aspen Mountain and surrounding areas can anticipate blizzard like conditions overnight and continuing until ten a.m tomorrow morning. The winds make potentially wide spread power outages a concern…'_

"Looks like we may be staying a spell," he commented with a lift of his brow.

"Mildred will be _beside_ herself when we don't show for dinner," she worried.

"Not a bad thing, perhaps," he reasoned. "We've no idea where we are, our skis have been abandoned God only knows where," he pointed out. "She'll be all over the locals, insisting a search be called up at once." She blew out a frustrated breath.

"I just don't like the idea of worrying her." He was right, she knew, still… She slung an arm over her eyes and closed them, humming now and then when he eased a particularly sore spot in her ankle.

Eventually the sounds ceased, altogether, and he patted her sole, indicating he was done. He laughed quietly when he realized she'd fallen fast asleep. Lying her foot down on the couch, he eased off it then stood in the center of the room, wondering how he might occupy himself until she woke.


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N: This chapter includes NC-17 content. If uncomfortable with such content or under the age of 18, please continue to chapter 7._**

* * *

Chapter 6

Laura's eyes fluttered open, her brown eyes taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, unsure, even, if it was night or day. This was one of her least favorite aspects of her job, waking in a strange place, because it always took a minute or two to orient herself. Rolling to her back, she stared at the wood slatted ceiling, her eyes shifting towards her feet at the sound of someone moving around in the room. Just as her initial instinct to run kicked in, her eyes found a familiar back. It all came back to her, as she sat up and tried to drag her fingers through still braided hair. _Ouch!_

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked aloud, a bit mortified she'd been so rude as to leave him to his own devices.

"For a spell," he answered, vaguely.

Her eyes fell to the coffee table where a game of solitaire was in progress, shifted to the now roaring fire, then traveled around the candlelight bathed room. When her nose finally identified the smell of food warming, her stomach growled, loudly. She shrugged off the blanket she'd been wrapped in and joined him in the kitchenette, hoisting herself up on the small counter.

"You've kept yourself busy, I see." He flashed her a quick smile, while his eyes moved over her face. Finding warmth in her eyes, he stepped to her, leaning in for a kiss, testing the waters. She smiled up at him as their lips parted, telling him silently she knew what he was about.

"Alright, then," he murmured, the tip of his tongue tasting his lips before he smacked them several times. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

"I thought we'd be wise to finish today's lunch before it spoils." With a final look at her, he took a step backwards. "Whether we have—" He stopped in his tracks when her hand grabbed his forearm, a gentle tug urging him back to where he'd previously stood. He swallowed hard when her splayed hands glided up his chest, over his shoulders, before her arms loosely encircled his neck.

"Not for food," she clarified, a set of fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck while a pair of sultry brown eyes met his. He regarded her at length, wondering if he could possibly be misreading her intentions. The simple fact was, a man could never be certain when it came to Laura Holt.

"Laura, I need you to be very clear—"

His words were muffled when she pulled his head downwards and covered his lips with hers. It was the most uninhibited kiss she'd ever given him, her lips teasing his, her tongue tasting, savoring him. Of its own will, his hand sought the long column of her neck stroking it, as he was overwhelmed by her. The taste of her lips. The touch of her hand against cheek, his jaw, his neck. The scent of sunshine, honeysuckle and grass, that was so uniquely hers, surrounding him. It was too much, it wasn't enough by half. What doubts he had about her intentions were thoroughly vanquished when a small hand whispered down his back, over the firm contours of his bum, before settling there, kneading. A jolt of electricity shot straight to his core.

With a groan, he pressed as close to her as he could, wrapping his free arm around her, pulling her even tighter against his body until they were melded from hip to shoulder, not giving a damn she'd feel the rapidly hardening proof of his desire for her. With a gasp against her lips, he pulled away. Breathing hard, he could only stare at her, as her hands grasped the hem of his thermal shirt and tugged it upwards. He bent over, took two steps backwards, the shirt pulling free of his head, then arms.

Laura's lips lifted in a winsome smile in answer to the shell-shocked look upon his face. She'd held him off for so long that now when she was wishing he'd make a move – already – he seemed at loss for what to do next. Well, she'd give him a little hint.

"Come here," she commanded softly. His eyes held hers as he stepped in close again.

Then heaven was a place on earth, here and now, in the form of a passionate little sprite, who'd buried one hand in his hair, the other hand holding tight to his shoulder, as she wrapped her legs around him and lifted herself into his arms. He'd barely time to utter her name, before she was kissing him with abandon. His heart pounded in his chest as he greedily took whatever her lips offered.

She hummed against his lips when he slipped an arm around her back, while his other hand cupped her bottom, pressing her tightly against him. The way he held her freed the hand at his shoulder to roam over his shoulder, then downwards, where she dragged her nails lightly through the thick mat of hair on his chest, exploring its silken texture, a nail teasing his nipple as her fingers skated past. She wriggled against him, wanting… needing… to know the flavor of his skin. She pried her lips from his, their mouths parting with a soft pop, before those same lips trailed over a jaw, down his neck. She sighed, after her first taste of his rich, slightly salty skin, her breath fanning the lightly wettened patch of skin.

Goosebumps peppered his skin at the sensation, his hips instinctively grinding against her. Much to his delight, rather than shifting away from his hardness, she reciprocated the motion. But he wanted, needed… more. He wanted to learn how the curve of her breast fit into his palm, to trace with his tongue every single dapple of color sprinkled over her petite frame. He wanted to taste the sweetness of her skin, to savor, for the first time, the flavor of her essence. He wanted to make her writhe beneath his touch. He wanted… no, needed… to see her face when she went up in flames, to feel her body quaking beneath his. He needed to finally know how it felt to be buried deep within her warmth when he found his own pleasure…

With a loud groan his hands grasped her waist, then pried her small body from around his and plunked her down on the counter. He stared at her, memorizing the way her skin was pinkened by desire, how her chest rose and fell rapidly, the already peaked nipples outlined clearly through the thin fabric of her shirt. But it was when her fingertips touched his bare abdomen, making the muscle jumps and his blood course through his body, that he lost all resolve.

 _Sod it_.

He cupped her head in his hands and drew her lips back up to his. He slowed it down this time. The kiss slow, languid, thoroughly tender. She hummed low in her throat while wriggling closer to the counter edge, so one hand could stroke his shoulder and arm, while the fingers of the other traced the rise and fall of his ribs, whispered over the hard planes of his stomach. When her hand dared to slide lower, to trace the outline of his erection through his thermals, he again abruptly ended the kiss, put distance between them.

"Oh, God," he bemoaned, leaning against straightened arms supported by hands on the counter. He glanced at her, then dropped his head down, staring at the floor, trying to find some form of control. "We can't…" he panted, even his shortness of breath not concealing his deep regret. She stared at him in disbelief, then her temper piqued. Crossing her arms in front of her, she scowled at him.

"Of course, we can't," she retorted. "Why is it you're so quick to point the finger when I'm not ready to move forward, yet when I am—"

"I'm not in the habit of carrying protection, Lau-ra," he interrupted, drawing out her name in protest, "Most notably whilst engaging in a day of skiing." A smile slowly lifted her lips, sparkled in her eyes, and, after a couple ticks of the clock, a lyrical laugh bubbled past her lips, increasing in volume when he turned his head to glower at her. "I'm glad to see you find the humor in this. Of course, it won't be you standing beneath a subarctic spray of water, now will it be?" he asked testily. Her eyes flitted downwards, unwittingly, then back up to his face.

"There are other ways to take care of that particular problem that are much more enjoyable," she noted, adding a sultry layer to her voice, "But while that may still happen, it won't be _needed_." She held out a hand to him. "Come here." Even with her tantalizing suggestion in mind, he took her hand reluctantly, fairly certain that artic shower was awaiting him. She drew him to her with a gentle pull of his hand. The smile didn't leave her face, until she drew a pair of splayed hands over his abdomen, then chest, the feeling of naked torso beneath her fingers sending sparks ricocheting down her spine. "I'm clean, are you?" she finally asked, lifting her eyes to meet his, as her hands continued to wander.

"As a whistle, but—"

"And while impressed that you appear to feel it's solely a man's job to supply the protection, I'm a woman of the eighties, Mr. Steele. I'm on the pill… if that's okay with you."

Emotions warred within him. Any number of women had said the same in years past, but he'd never once imbibed without a condom. Nothing would be left to chance, not on his watch. But then, as he studied her while she patiently awaited a response, the answer came to him. This was Laura. The woman who had to be in command of her own destiny. She'd no more risk an unwelcome pregnancy that he. Cupping her neck, he drew her lips up to his for a tender kiss.

"Where were we?" he asked, before stealing another kiss. By the time this kiss had ended, she'd taken his hands in hers then placed them at the hem of her shirt.

"Right about here, I believe," she answered. His blue eyes met hers and the two pairs held, the look of pure daring in her brown ones bedazzling him. Gathering the fabric in his hand, he lifted the shirt slowly over her head, then tossed it aside.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but for certain it wasn't the look of stunned approval on his face, or the way he traced the back of his fingers over her shoulders, her chest, never nearing her breasts. He slipped an arm around her waist, eased her backwards until she lay on the counter. Her legs lifted to wrap around his hips of their own accord, as he bent forward, his mouth replacing his hand. For long minutes he pleasured himself by feeding on the freckles he'd dreamed of for years, while her hands caressed his back, his sides, his arms, buried themselves in his hair.

She gasped when he at last palmed a perfectly rounded, small orb, his mouth zeroing in on the center of the other. While one finger circled around the nipple of her left breast, flicking, teasing its puckered peak, his mouth waged sensual warfare on her right: suckling, nibbling, his tongue teasing the pointed tip. She writhed beneath him, her back arching. It was too much and by far not enough. Her fingers sunk into his hair again, grasped it, dragged his mouth away from her breast to her lips. She pushed up into a sitting position, their mouths still latched together, and slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his pants on either side of his hips, pulling the material down as far as she could in a hint. With a bit of maneuvering on his part, he finally kicked the impeding article of clothing away.

He tore his lips away from hers, sucking in a swift, harsh breath when her delicate hand closed around his hardened shaft. His erection twitched… hard… as her hand whispered up its length. But when her hand gently eased back his foreskin and her thumb swirled around its tip, a jolt of pure pleasure rippled through his entire body with such intensity that he knew he wouldn't be able to last as long as he wished to so long as she continued to touch him so.

"Laura," her murmured huskily, as his head dipped downwards again, his lips finding hers, while he brushed her hand away from him. He lifted her up from the counter, molding her slim frame to his. He moaned into her mouth, when she wrapped her legs around him again, and he felt the dampness of her pants at the apex. It was with great presence of mind that he recalled to turn the stove off before he stumbled towards the bed.

They instant she lay on the bed, he urgently relieved her of her pants, her own zealousness reflected in how she eagerly lifted her hips to assist in his endeavors. Stretching his lean frame out on the bed next to her, he fed greedily on her mouth while her hands wandered over his chest, his hip, his bum. One of his hands was doing some wandering of its own, slipping between her legs. He grunted when he found her wet and, given how she ground her mound against his hand, more than ready. A bit desperately, he experimented with stroking the nub of her pleasure, until a gasp against his lips told him what it was she liked most.

Then, suddenly, he was rolling to his back, and she was there, rising above him, her knees pressed into his sides as she straddled him. Blindly, he reached down and positioned himself at her entrance, his gaze not leaving hers. He needed to see…

Her hands pressing against his taunt abdomen to balance herself, she sank down, taking his tip inside. They gasped in unison, her eyes widening. It had been a long time since she'd gone to bed with a man and he was well-equipped. At another time, he might have given her a smug smile, for he suffered from no loss of confidence in the bedroom. He knew, well, his skill sets… and that a woman had never been displeased by what they'd found beneath his shorts.

But this was not any woman, this was Laura…

He grasped her hips, holding her still as she panted while her body adjusted to him. Her eyes nearly crossed at the sensation of him finally within her body, stretching her, making her muscles clamp around him. She began to move, taking his hardened shaft a little deeper with each trust of her hips, until, at last he was buried to the hilt.

Then she stilled, watching the play of emotions in his eyes, over his face.

"My God, Laura," he murmured, his fingers digging into her hips while he tried to calm.

He'd dreamt of this moment a thousand times over and not a single dream could compete with the reality of being cradled inside her tight, wet warmth. He tangled his fingers in her hair, drew her head downwards until their lips made contact.

Then, she was moving again. Already hovering at the edge from merely his presence, in a handful of strokes, the powerful orgasm rolled over her. Rearing back her head, her lips parted and eyes glazed over, while he pumped his hips to see her through the whole of it.

Then they were rolling again, he hovering over her, as he positioned himself between her legs. Sliding back in, he teased her upwards with slow, short strokes of his shaft, while mouth and fingers teased, plucked at, nibbled on a pair of breasts. When her fingers flexed, then clutched his back, he knew she was nearing another climax, and he thanked the stars above, for his own control was rapidly withering. Just as he felt the familiar tightening in his groin, her back arched and she cried out, her inner muscles drawing him high and tight inside of her. His shaft twitched within her as it spilled his essence. He groaned her name, as he felt her muscles flutter around him, as her body quaked beneath his.

There were no words, afterwards, both held speechless by the sheer power of what they were feeling. Too soon, in her opinion, he slipped out of her body, and moved to lay on his side facing her when she turned. They kissed frequently, his hand caressing, soothing her body, until she finally wedged a knee between his legs and slung an arm around his waist. Pillowing her cheek on a hand, her breath warming his chest, she allowed his touch to lull her to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The chill of the room against her cheek woke Laura from a sound sleep. Oh, her backside was warm enough, with Remington spooned around her as he was. He'd made them a pallet before the fire last night, where they'd made love, yet again, before falling asleep, their bodies sated… at least for now. A smile lifted her lips as her eyes opened and she stared at the dying fire before her.

Carefully, she eased herself from Remington's embrace, smiling when he mumbled his discontent. Since becoming lovers two nights ago, he seemed to have a pressing need to stay connected to her in some manner. Those artless touches he'd employed with her from the beginning multiplied three-fold. His eyes no longer traveled over her face, assessing whether she'd be receptive to a kiss, instead he drew her to him at will, kissing her at his leisure. When she wasn't in close enough proximity for either of those, his eyes followed her every movement, waiting for that moment when her eyes would meet his, at which point he'd inevitably grace her with a quick, quiet smile.

Was it all done to reassure her she'd made the right decision in allowing them to finally move past that line at the bedroom door? She wasn't sure… and didn't know if she particularly cared. She didn't have a single regret, and if she did? Well, those doubts would have been vanquished by the way he made love to her or held her as though she was made of the most fragile glass when they were falling to sleep. There was a vulnerability in his eyes during those times that even a con artist as verse as himself could not feign… and he'd be horrified to know was even there to begin with.

Lifting a log from the stack, she carefully positioned it in the hearth, watching as it sizzled then began to burn, oblivious to the pair of blue eyes intently admiring the portrait she made as she kneeled nude before the hearth. The flames brought out the reds in her hair, those lovely freckles on her skin, and shadowed her gentle curves so he might appreciate them – and appreciate them, he most certainly did.

He'd been ill prepared for her, of that there was no doubt.

Years before, the bloke with whom she'd once lived had warned of her passionate nature.

Warned.

Oh, he'd had a good laugh at that, after the initial surprise had worn off. Warned, as though that were a bad thing – a sure sign of a man who couldn't keep up, he'd quickly assessed. But for him? Well, those fantasies and dreams in which she'd been his sole star for quite some time, had heated up even further.

Not a single one of them lived up to the reality of her.

She was as insatiable as he. She was uninhibited, creative, athletic, inventive. She enjoyed drawing every ounce of pleasure from his body that she could, as though it were a challenge to drag him to the edge again and again, only to leave him hovering there, wondering if it was to be this time that she'd leave him there until he begged for sweet release. Yet as much as she enjoyed giving him pleasure, she enjoyed taking it as well. Quite freely, at that. She hid nothing from him, her gasps, sighs, soft cries guiding his way. He'd quickly discovered the muscles in her inner thighs tightened and her fingers clenched his back, arms or bed in the moments before her body quaked… and that she preferred to be as close to him physically as she could be when it did. He couldn't recall a time when he'd talked as much… _laughed_ as much… during sex, as he did with her. And he'd learned there had never been a more sensual feeling that being cradled within her warmth.

No, he not been prepared, at all, for the reality of her…

Or that he'd be so loathe to let her get too far away from him when they weren't making love. He'd played endless hands of pinochle, a game called Life, then Monopoly with her, for no other reason than to keep her near. He'd uttered not a complaint when, twice now, they'd spent near on two hours boiling water and pouring it into the tub, just so they could soak together in the bath.

And now, here he was wide awake at this godforsaken hour for no other reason than he'd missed her, even in his sleep, which was bloody ridiculous if you asked him… But it seemed his heart had weighed in that it didn't give a damn.

That same heart caught in his throat when Laura turned her head and looked back over her shoulder at him. _A portrait fitting to hang in the Louvre_ , he thought to himself.

His gaze held hers, as he pushed up to kneel behind her, a hand at her waist urging her to turn around. Burying his hands in her hair, that she'd left hanging loose, he stared at her for long seconds before slowly bending his head and covering her lips with his. He kissed her with such a languid, tender thoroughness that it left her toes curling and her heart pounding. When he drew his lips away from hers, she slowly lifted her lashes until his blue eyes kept her brown eyes spellbound yet again. As his hand caressed her neck, she moved closer to him, as his eyes seemed to request that she do, until their bodies touched from knee to breast.

When he leaned in to kiss her again, he vowed to himself that _this time_ he'd count every single dapple of color sprinkling her skin by the time dawn came, and only then would he make her his once more.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Laura jolted awake, while Remington roused begrudgingly, when pounding on the door of the cabin disturbed what had been a peaceful slumber.

"What in the bloody hell," he mumbled against the top of her head, before she rose from where she'd been sleeping splayed partway across his body.

"Is anyone in there?" a man's voice yelled from the other side of the door.

"Yes, hold on just a minute," Laura called back, as she located her thermal pants and shirt, discarded the night before, and tugged them on while she tossed him his undergarments so he could do the same. She hastened across the room, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was decent before she unlatched the door and swung it open. She immediately lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the brightness of sun and snow.

"Looks like we have them," one of the men yelled towards who she didn't know.

"Miss Holt?" the man at the apex of the of the triangle, inquired. "Miss Laura Holt?"

"Yes, that's me," she confirmed.

"Brian Beckwith with Pitkin County Search and Rescue," he introduced himself, as he peered around the door and spotted Remington. "Remington Steele, I presume?" he sought to verify. Remington's eyes narrowed a bit, somewhat insulted the man had no idea who he was.

"One and the same," he answered, blithely.

"Yup, it's them. Call it in," the man yelled bellowed towards the snow again.

"We've been out looking for the two of you for the last thirty-six hours," Beckwith informed them, as he unzipped his ski jacket, and fished a memo pad from its interior pocket. "A… Miss Krebs… has been calling every law enforcement agency in and around Aspen, demanding rescue crews be dispatched to find you." Laura turned to face Remington.

"Mildred," she said, elongating their long-time secretary's name, while lifting her brows and giving him a dimpled smile that clearly said 'I told you so.'

"Yes, and sending people to interrupt us in abstention now it would seem," he grumbled, only half in jest. He wasn't ready to let go of their time here, yet, and a part of him bloody well resented he'd have to do just that.

"We can be ready to go in ten minutes," Laura informed their rescuer. "Make it fifteen if you'd all like a hot cup of coffee," she offered, welcoming them inside.

Thirty minutes later, four rescuers and two rescued, trudged outside in the snow where four snowmobiles awaited them.

"Miss Holt, if you'll just climb on behind me, Mr. Steele can ride with one of the other men. Unseen by Laura, Remington's brow furrowed at the thought of her legs wrapped around another man, in any form. He grabbed her hand and hauled her back before she could climb aboard.

"What…" she sputtered.

"I'm afraid we can't do that," Remington declined. "It's a long-standing policy of the Agency that, as partners, we stick together, no matter the circumstances. If you'll allow us to use one of your vehicles, we'll just follow along behind."

"That's not our normal policy, sir," Beckwith countered. "We have some rough terrain ahead of us—"

"Not to worry. Miss Holt's a veritable expert at navigating one of these…" he waved his hand at one of the snowmobiles. To Laura's credit, no one would have guessed that she was thinking the man had finally lost his mind. Which is precisely what she said to him after he'd convinced Beckwith to let her 'have at it,' and he'd climbed on behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Have you lost your mind, Mr. Steele?" she demanded in an undertone only he would be able to hear. "I've never driven one of these things before, let alone have achieved expert status."

"I put my life in your hands nearly every day, when you, what some might optimistically call… drive," he prevaricated, while saying a prayer they made it through things in one piece. "Much rather take my chances with you." She stared down at the dash of the vehicle, looked over the gears, located gas and accelerator. She shrugged her shoulders. _Why not?_

"Alright, Mr. Steele. I'm game if you are," she agreed.

"And Laura?" he called to her as she started the engine.

"Yes?"

"By all means, feel free not to be as committed to this endeavor as you were when testing the veracity of Artie's story," he cautioned, as he reached up and pulled his googles down, positioning them on his face.

"Why Mr. Steele, where would the fun be in that?" she challenged, as she put the snowmobile in gear and opened up the gas. He'd tilted backwards, saved from tumbling off the back of the machine by an arm that blindly grabbed for her waist.

 _Perhaps not one of your best ideas, old sport._

* * *

Mildred was on top of Laura and Remington in a second after they'd stepped through the Aspen Chalet's lobby door.

"Oh," she clasped her hands on her cheeks and rushed forward, "Let me see you kids." She hugged them both, before taking each of their faces in her hands and evaluating what she saw there. "You don't look none the worse for wear," she noted.

"We're fine, Mildred," Laura reassured, giving her another hug. "We found a cabin, took shelter and just waited it out." Mildred smiled wide, looked from one to the other.

"Waited it out?" she asked with a flirty wiggle of her brows. "Or waited it out?" she said more solemnly, with a gesticulation of her hand.

"Just waited it out, Mildred," Laura answered in that tone which said, 'We're done discussing this.' She rubbed her hands together. "I'm starving," she announced. "What time is it, Mr. Steele?" Shrugging his watch free of his sleeve, he looked at the face.

"One-twenty," he supplied. She smiled at Mildred, then lifted a jaunty brow to Remington.

"Care to join me for lunch?" He nodded, taking his cue from her.

"I suppose I could be convinced, so long as they're not serving _stew_ ," he replied, with a pointed look at Laura which left her laughing, and Mildred looking at them with open curiosity. He held out an arm. "After you, ladies."

"Okay, give," Mildred demanded of Laura, as they walked towards the restaurant. "What's the boss got against stew?"

Laura's laughter trickled through the air.

* * *

Speaking of stew, by the time the hour hand had reached eleven, Remington was doing a bit of stewing of his own.

Laura and he had dined with Mildred and her date du jour that evening – a makeup session for the dinner date they'd missed when the snow storm had first rolled in. Much like lunch that afternoon, Laura had provided subtle remarks, looks, which indicated she wished to keep the change in status of their personal relationship under wraps. It puzzled him, that, for she was still the same woman who'd informed Mildred of merely her _plans_ for them to cross the line in Cannes, before, of course, that trip had turned into an unmitigated disaster.

* * *

" _ **Have you been to the gardens, Mildred? Lovely vista, beautiful walkways"**_

 _ **"That's for lovebirds like you."**_

* * *

The comment had tweaked him at the time, for he was already a bit put out with Laura for deciding, wholly on her own, it was time for their relationship to progress into the bedroom. Not that he hadn't wanted, wished for exactly that, for he most certainly had – desperately so. It was the unilateral nature of the decision which had drawn his affront. Two years! Two years spent romancing her, trying to convince her to erase the boundaries she'd established and he'd had no voice, none whatsoever, in the decision that the time was _now._

Then to discover Mildred had known even before he? Well, that had bloody well taken the cake! A command performance it was to be, it seemed, in which he was the unwitting star.

So, he'd enjoyed watching Laura's discomfort when Mildred's hapless comment and knowing looks served as an announcement he hadn't even been the first person she'd told of her decision.

But that whole bit in Cannes certainly made events now more than a bit confusing, as she'd made it clear she didn't wish Mildred to know of the quiet turn their personal relationship had taken, whereas he… _he…_ wished to make it clear his Miss Holt was spoken for.

Thus, when she'd appeared in the doorway of his bathroom wearing a decadent gown of black satin and white lace with matching robe, his eyes had barely flicked over her image in the mirror as he tapped his razor on the side of the sink and reached for a face towel. Her brows furrowed.

"What's the matter?" she asked, directing the question at his back. Setting the towel down on the counter, he turned to face her. Leaning his backside against the counter, he crossed ankles and arms.

"Care to enlighten me as to why you appear so determined Mildred not know of the… recent change… in our personal relationship?" Her brows lifted in surprise.

"Frankly, I thought you'd appreciate the discretion," she commented, as she turned and walked into the room. He followed in her wake.

"Is that the only reason?" he challenged. "Or should I expect when we return to LA our personal relationship also returns to its former status quo? Hmmmm?" She whirled around, taken by surprise again.

"That has nothing to do with it, at all," she defended, crossing her arms and tipping her chin up a notch. "Contrary to the company you normally keep, Mr. Steele, I'm not exactly the type of woman who engages in a casual fling while on holiday then bids her lover adieu when that holiday comes to an end." She gave her head a short shake. "I thought you understood that. Perhaps I was wrong." With a sharp nod of her head, she turned towards her room, planning on making a dignified exit. His hand closed around her upper arm, before she could make her escape.

"You know I do," he answered quietly. "Which is what makes it all the more puzzling that you seem determined to sweep what's happened between us under the proverbial rug." She easily extracted her arm from his grip, as she reversed course and walked across the room. When she came to a standstill, she turned to face him, lifting a hand to rub at the base of her throat.

"We already have to figure out how this change of our personal relationship will work within the confines our professional one," she pointed out. "I thought we could both do without Mildred's knowing looks, her little quips… her _interrogations_ … until we've done exactly that." He shoved his hands in his pockets, and pursed his lips, thoughtfully.

"Is that the only reason?" he sought to verify. She threw up her hands then dropped them.

"Isn't that reason enough?" When he appeared to remain unconvinced, she approached him, laying a hand on each of his bare shoulders. "I don't want have to answer questions about where we stand now, where we're heading…" She frowned, softly, then added "… or where, even, we _want_ this to go. I just want to enjoy it." She palmed his jaw and caressed his cheek with her thumb. "Can you understand that?" His stony stance melted beneath her hands, as he slipped his arms around her slim waist.

"I can," he acquiesced. He was rewarded with a wide smile. "Now, let me have a look at you," he requested, stepping back to take in the full view. With a wicked little smile, she let the robe fall to the floor, then spun around to allow him to admire the backless piece of lingerie. "My, my, my," he hummed. "Absolutely enchanting." He stepped to her and stroked a hand over her satin clad side from hip-to-breast.

"I thought you'd find it a considerable improvement over my thermals," she smiled up at him, as she dragged a pair of splayed up his abdomen to his chest, where one hand remained to caress while the other continued its path over his shoulder, stopping to toy with the hair at the base of his neck. Her smile widened as she watched goosebumps course over his skin.

"Oh, I don't know," he disagreed. "I find myself to be inordinately fond of that particular pair of thermals. I've been thinking of having them bronzed, as a matter of fact." He traced the back of his fingers over the lace at her breast. Pursing his lips, he leaned in, let his lips hover just millimeters from hers. "Perhaps some further investigation is needed?" he suggested.

"Well, you know how much I appreciate… thorough investigation," she answered, the sultry layer added to her normally lyrical tone heating his blood.

A laugh from low in his throat quickly followed when she yanked his head down, initiating the kiss he'd been teasing her with the promise of.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Laura gave herself the once over in Remington's bathroom mirror, nodding her head in approval when she finished. She'd pass the muster as a poker dealer, if she did say so herself. _Thanks, in large part, to Mr. Steele's private tutelage,_ she acknowledged to herself with a smile.

She laughed, softly. She'd been smiling almost non-stop since they'd returned from Aspen two weeks ago. If she'd had any concerns regarding how the change in their personal lives would affect their professional life or now that he'd seen and conquered it would mark the beginning of the end – and _both_ thoughts had been frequently on her mind – well, those worries and concerns had been firmly put to rest.

If anything, where work was concerned, her Mr. Steele had become more diligent than he'd ever been before. Coming in earlier, leaving later, completing paperwork without _too_ much fuss. Hell, he'd even – voluntarily! - done some legwork. She wasn't so foolish to believe he didn't have his own motives for these changes. He arrived at the office with her in the morning because they'd spent the night together the evening before. He stayed late at the office because he enjoyed going home together _and_ it guaranteed better than even odds she'd be next to him when he fell asleep. As for that paperwork and legwork? He'd quickly realized the sooner it was completed, the sooner they could depart… without a bunch of inconvenient homework following them home.

Yet, no matter his motive, it had been an unexpected – and very nice – surprise. Had she known newfound dedication to his work would have been the natural outcropping of their more intimate personal lives? _Well_ , she laughed silently to herself, _We may have crossed that line a lot sooner._

The simple truth of her constant smile was that she was happy. Happier than she'd been in a long, long time.

She startled when a hand reached from behind her then brushed aside her hair so a pair of lips might whisper over her neck. As had become natural in the past weeks, she leaned ever so slightly against him and reached for his hand.

"Might I say, you are the loveliest dealer I've ever laid eyes upon," he complimented in a low voice, next to her ear, their eyes meeting in the mirror. She turned in his arms, took a moment to admire him. After a slight adjustment of his tie, she ran her hands over the shoulder of his jacket, then the arms before giving his ensemble her seal of approval.

"You don't look too shabby yourself," she returned, then stepped out of his embrace and left the bathroom, he following on her heels. "Cards are marked?"

"They are," he confirmed, as they walked out of the bedroom and into the living room of his flat, where a temporary poker table had been set up.

"I gotta tell you, kids," Mildred announced, as she emerged dressed in a server's uniform from the kitchen, "The two of you sure know how to put on a first rate sting."

"Merely customized for our quarry, Mildred," he replied, while Laura took a seat at the table then looked it over.

"Mildred, can you prepare a bowl of nuts for our guests?"

"You got it," she agreed easily, turning around to return to the kitchen.

"One last time?" Laura inquired, as she shuffled the cards.

"If you insist," he agreed, then watched as she spread the cards out in an arc, then flipped them over in a single motion.

"A bit showy," he warned. She lifted her brows and smirked at him in answer to the admonishment.

"Ready?" With a tug of his ear, he shifted his stance, and, growing serious, concentrated on the deck of cards in her hands.

"Go ahead." She placed a card face down on the table. He studied it for a tick of the second hand on his watch.

"Six of diamonds." She turned over the card, revealing the six of diamonds. An impressed smile dancing on her lips, she dealt a second card. "Jack of spades." A turn of the card confirmed. As Mildred emerged from the kitchen with the requested bowl of nuts, Laura dealt a third card. His eyes never left the card when he spoke. "Reminds me of you. Queen of hearts." Her face lit up at his words.

"I still don't get how you do it," Mildred praised, when the card was revealed.

A knock at the door indicated the evening was ready to begin.

* * *

Remington sank down on his couch with a glass of scotch in his hand. To say the evening hadn't gone as planned would be a gross understatement. Grogan had pulled a fast one, cheating himself into one-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars, _which,_ incidentally _the Agency_ was on the hook for and Laura was furious, with good reason. The bugger of it all was _he_ was on the hot seat for the lot of it. His plan, his failure. It was as simple as that.

Laura, to her credit, hadn't scampered away, as he'd fully expected her to. No, she'd stayed, although he wasn't sure that was necessarily in his favor, given she'd locked herself behind the bathroom door near on twenty minutes ago now.

He took a long draw of his scotch, then stood and walked out onto the terrace. Leaning against the railing, he had another drink while watching out over Hancock Park.

He'd meant what he'd said to her earlier in the evening. Like the thief in the night he once was, she'd stolen away with his heart. Had a long, long time ago, in truth. If he'd ever doubted that, when she'd ended things between them in Cannes, that ache in his chest that had gnawed at him in the interminable months afterwards would have been a wake up call. But he'd known. Did know.

Just as he knew loving Laura Holt had never been easy, and likely never would be. She with her lists, her rules. But he'd always been a man who enjoyed a good challenge, and she had been that… was still that… would likely always _be_ that. It was one of the things he loved most about her…

But it also meant he never quite knew where he stood with the woman. Like now. She'd stayed. That would normally stand as a testament to the strength of their relationship these days. Wouldn't it? And there was the rub: For all he knew she was sitting in the bathroom writing his letter of resignation for him, whilst preparing to give him the old heave ho, personally and professionally. You never knew with Laura Holt…

Which is why declaring himself to her held such risk… always had. Such a statement of his feelings, might have her throwing herself into his arms, overcome with joy… or it might lead her to show him the door out of doubt and fear.

Nevertheless, he'd meant what he'd said tonight. She was the queen of this Irishman's heart. When he'd said the words, his tongue had felt heavy, yet somehow the words had come out far quicker than he'd meant for them to. They were to be an introduction – a preview, if you will – of the words he was working himself up to say. Thankfully, despite the less-than-romantic delivery, they been taken by her in the right way.

Yes, he'd made up his mind: he was going to, at long last, declare both feelings and intent to her. He wanted the commitment, him to her, her to him. And the man who'd once laughed at the very idea of permanency with any woman, wanted precisely that. He wanted them to move in together, whether her with him, or him with her… or them somewhere else altogether. He wanted to know that in good times and in bad, such as tonight, they would come home to one another.

Well, the evening's debacle had certainly put a hitch into _that_ plan. Such a declaration tonight would fall on suspect ears, that little voice that was always nagging at her questioning if he was sincere… or if he was simply using such a momentous announcement to get back in her good graces. No, no. That couldn't happen. It was one thing to be prepared to leave your heart on the table and say 'let the cards fall as they may' when things were going well. To do so now carried too much of a risk that she'd quit the table.

What he needed was to come up with a plan to get them out of this fix, because unless he did, there might never be a need to say those words.

He went back inside, locking the French doors behind him. Setting his glass down on the coffee table, he decided it was time to test the waters. When he stood before the bathroom door, he found himself at a loss. Test the door knob or give a knock? His hand reached for the knob, stopped, then turned over so his knuckles could rap softly on the door.

"It's open," Laura called. Reaching for the knob, he cracked the door open and peeked in his head, judging whether or not it was safe to enter. "You can join me, if you like," she invited.

 _Yet more proof one can never predict what Miss Holt might do,_ he reminded himself. He'd imagined any number of responses to his knock: Dead silence; a bid to go away; her, storming out of the bathroom, ready to give it to him. But join me in a bubble bath? No, even he wasn't imaginative enough to conceive of that.

"Love to," he heard himself agree. He considered it promising that her eyes didn't leave him as he stripped down until he was as bare as she. They'd quickly learned the art of enjoying a bath together in the Aspen cabin. She automatically slid forward, then once he'd positioned himself behind her, his legs on either side of her, she scooted backwards until she relaxed her back against his chest.

She felt the nervous tension in his frame.

"You can relax," she told him lightly. "I'm not going to bite."

"It's not necessarily your _teeth_ that have me worried," he quickly answered.

"I realized I had only two choices, Mr. Steele," came her eerily calm reply.

"Oh, and what were those?"

"I could blame myself and _you._ Myself for once again placing my future in the hands of someone eIse, which," she held up a single finger, "Let me add, I had promised myself I would never do again. And you, for coming up with the foolhardy plan that has landed us where we are. In which case, I could storm out of here after issuing a warning of what would happen, to you, should we not come out of this right side up." He swallowed hard.

"Or?"

"Or," she drew out the word, "I could believe we'll find our way out of this mess, as we always have. In which case, I could enjoy the hot bath I've been thinking about most of the day, then take you to bed afterwards." He ducked his head down and rested his lips next to her ear.

"I approve of your choice… and your plan, Miss Holt," he commended, quietly.

"I thought you might," she answered, dryly.

"With one minor alteration," he added.

"Oh, and what might that be?" She was smiling as his hands gripped her waist and lifted her in the water. Gladly, she turned around and straddled his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. He pursed his lips and waggled his head.

"A merger, of sorts." She narrowed her eyes on his face.

"What kind of merger do you have in mind?" One hand drew firmly down her back, while the other cupped the back of her neck, and drew her lips near. Their eyes met and held.

"You know… precisely… what I mean," he challenged.

And she did. She was smiling, her eyes twinkling with mischievousness, when her lips met his.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

 _ **"If I'm not careful, Miss Holt, you could make an honest man of me."**_

 _ **"I'm counting on it, Mr. Steele."**_

* * *

The words they'd exchanged on the streets of Las Vegas, some three dozen stories below, had been repeating in her mind since she'd closed herself behind the bedroom door of the Presidential suite she, Remington and Mildred were sharing.

 _Thank heavens for Mildred,_ she silently acknowledged.

Her unintended buffer. A welcome buffer.

She needed time to think and she certainly didn't do that very well when her Mr. Steele was around, at least lately.

Pressing up on an elbow, she punched her pillow, then lay down, trying to get comfortable.

No, logic, intelligence and rationale seemed to flee in favor of impulsivity, desire and emotion when he was near. And those three things made her do things that were wholly out of character.

Such as allowing him to devise the plan to catch Grogan and recover the stolen gems. She'd vowed, had promised… had _sworn_ … after their nearly disastrous second attempt at guarding the Royal Lavulite that she would never again put her fate into someone else's hands. The plan, then, had been his inspiration, as well, and look where it gotten them: the Royal Lavulite, gone, the Agency on the hook; them in the sites of a murderer; a potentially lethal swim with sea snakes; nearly burned alive in a casket at the crematorium; and… _and_ … _let's not forget my five story fall off his balcony._

Yet, here they were again. And why? Because she'd wanted him to have some tangible proof of her trust in him; because she'd wanted to show him, _through deed_ , that she valued his intelligence, his creativity, his commitment to the job… that she valued _him_.

She rolled to her other side, punching the pillow again for good measure.

She'd been foolish, impulsive, driven by her emotions, instead of reason, in making tht decision. She'd placed the Agency at risk… again. And this time, _this time_ , that Remington Steele wasn't Remington Steele had come perilousy to being revealed. Then, if that weren't bad enough, she'd _humiliated_ herself on the gaming floor, the thrill of the win appealing to _that Laura._ That same Laura who'd already cost her one relationship but could now cost her so much more.

She stared at the closet doors in front of her, a frown knitting her brows together.

* * *

 _ **"You know, that is one of the problems with us. It came to me one, lonely night. It wasn't exactly the burning bush, but still it got my attention. You're… uh… You're one of the things that I have to guard against. The part of me that I can't ever allow myself to be. Reckless, indulgent, frivolous . .**_ ."

* * *

During the months after Cannes, when she'd ended their personal relationship, there had been many of those lonely nights. She'd missed him, them. But the off shoot of having night-after-night alone with one's self was it gave a person time to reflect on where their life now was, what had brough them there, and she'd done exactly that.

It hadn't exactly been a revelation, as she'd told him, but she'd stood up and taken notice. Her Mr. Steele had the ability to draw out of her all those parts of herself she did her utmost best to keep locked away. Dangerous parts of herself. He found them alluring, enticing… enchanting… and because he was so bedazzled by them, it made it far too easy to set a piece of herself free.

And for what?

A roll in the hay? To scratch that itch that had been plaguing her for three years?0000

 _An itch he's damned good at scratching_ , she mused, a smile quirking on her lips.

* * *

 _ **"If I'm not careful, Miss Holt, you could make an honest man of me."**_

* * *

She sobered instantly as the words pranced through her mind again.

While the comment had been casual, it gnawed at her, pricking at her every insecurity.

Was he trying to tell her he didn't wish to become an honest man?

And what precisely did he mean by 'honest man'? That while she'd come to believe he'd embraced the role of Remington Steele and all its demands, he enjoyed the charade, but nothing more? It was, after all, the con of a lifetime, convincing an entire city that a figment of her imagination was the living, breathing man before them.

That troublesome thought had plagued her for years.

And then, after Cannes, he had stayed. When the opportunity had presented itself for him to assume the identity of Reginald Whitewood, the Duke's long, lost grandson, then, too, he had stayed.

She'd come to believe Remington Steele was no longer a role to him, but who he saw himself to be.

Perhaps… she'd been wrong.

* * *

 _ **"If the press of other commitments wasn't so severe, I might relish the role on a permanent basis. After all, I'm a man who enjoys impossible challenges."**_

* * *

She flipped over to face the wall, crossing her arms in front of herself.

Had she been so vain then as to assume he'd been referring to her, not the role, as the impossibe challenge?

Had he been speaking of her, their relationship this evening, not the role?

* * *

 _ **"… you could make an honest man of me."**_

* * *

In truth, those words could hold two very different meanings to her Mr. Steele. Honest, as in 'trodding the straight and narrow' or honest, as in a commitment to some form of permanency, by him to her.

Had he been trying to tell her this evening, in that round-about, read-between-the-lines approach he oft utilized when speaking of uncomfortable matters – namely, his past, his future, or emotions – that he'd no intention of making a commitment of any kind, at least willingly? Had never intended to? That he felt pressured by her for a commitment? That while he was having a good time between the sheets, it was nothing more than an enjoyable tryst for him that would soon end in a wink and a goodbye?

* * *

" _ **I'm not planning on cutting a fast tango through your life and I'm not going to stop wanting you, but those are the only guarantees I can give you."**_

* * *

He'd never been less than honest about his intentions. No guarantees. It was simple as that. Of all her fears, it was his own words that made her quake the hardest.

For while she spoke a good game, talking of being itchy or of hopping in the sack, much to her infinite irritation, at the end of the day, the lessons drilled into her from birth had planted firm roots within.

She'd lost her virginity during a bout of rebellion that was short lived after her father left. She'd regretted it, deeply, afterwards and hadn't liked herself much for it, but as her mother always said, you can't turn back time and do something all over again, simply because you didn't like the way it had turned out.

She'd proceeded with caution for years, then had tossed that caution to the wind in her college years. College had changed her, her friends had changed her. Out from beneath Abigail's oppressive thumb, she found herself immersed in the throes of the seventies. She stopped dressing like a choir girl: Bell bottoms, mini-skirts, gogo boots, flowing tunics, snug halters, and culottes were her clothes of choice. She attended demonstrations demanding equality for women, protests for environmental issues. She drank, enjoyed a joint now and then. Partied and danced the nights away.

But when it had come to sex? Her friends had all embraced the philosophy of free love, sampling the wares the college community served up whenever the whim struck. Those friends were happy… free… not mired down by the archaec double standards or an irrational belief that sex and love went hand-in-hand. In was the one convention tied to her former life that she hadn't fully rejected.

Then came the day that she did. She wouldn't, after all, be Laura Holt if she didn't want it all.

She'd set her eyes on her sexy calculus professor. Just watching the man as he lectured made her toes curl. Several times, he'd caught her admiring his ass, examining his crotch, wondering what might lay beneath the clothing. And when he'd seemed flattered by those looks? Well, she'd decided that he'd be her springboard into sexual liberation. Out had come the mini-skirts that barely covered the cheeks of her bottom, the low cut shirts and the tube tops that left ample portions of skin bare while concealing nothing… and those red glasses.

He'd been good. Really, really good. She'd experienced her first orgasm at a man's hand, then her first orgasm as a man moved within her. He'd rattled her teeth, pure and simple.

While it might have been enough for her friends, a good teeth rattling, it hadn't been for her. Like her first sexual experience, this too went on her list of regrets. She hadn't felt free, afterwards, but…used. Used by him, as much as he'd been used by her.

She'd wanted… more. Then she'd met Wilson. Good old dependable, fastidious, rule and propriety driven Wilson. She'd given him her body, much as her friends gave their bodies over to each new lover: Freely, without reservation. She'd discovered that sex with the man you were in love with might not mean multiple orgasms, and that was alright by her, for there was something to be said when each touch was a caress, not a grope; when each kiss was an emotion expressed, not simply a duel of the tongues; when a man uttered your name with reverence as he shuddered in your arms, instead of shouting a rousing round of "Oh, God, yeah, Oh, I'm coming".

It was okay to be left wanting more, when what she'd already had was… pretty good.

She'd given him her heart. Had pledged to him her future. Had believed him when he spoke of 'one days.'

When Wilson had left her, she'd learned, had embraced, three very important lessons. First, the Laura that had cost her their relationship had to go. Second, she could rely on no one but herself. And, lastly, that she was a woman where sex and emotion were irrevocably combined.

* * *

 _ **"If I'm not careful…"**_

* * *

Careful. She'd tried to be so careful with her Mr. Steele. How many times had she reminded herself of his shady past? His general untrustworthiness because of that past?

That, other than the Agency, they had absolutely nothing in common? He was a spendthrift, she was frugal. He was impulsive, she was logical. He liked to try his hand a the table, she liked to run, swim, bike and dance. He preferred five course meals with a fine wine, whereas there were nights she would happily kill for a hot, cheesy pizza with a good, cold beer. He appreciated film noire, while she enjoyed television. She needed to know she had a home to go to, while the world continaully beckoned him to move on to the next port.

Careful.

The thought played through her mind, as she stood up and drew on her robe, tightening the sash about her waist. She'd tried to be careful.

As careful as she was now, peeking out the doorway, checking to make certain the hall was clear. As she careful as she was slipping into the room two doors down.

She couldn't help the smile that lit her face, as her Mr. Steele dropped the arm he'd slung over his eyes, to look at her with surprised pleasure. She dropped her robe in response to the open arm that beckoned her to join him, then slid into bed and into the embrace of that waiting arm.

As she rested her head beneath his shoulder, listened to the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear, felt the warmth of his body against the hand that lay on his chest, she resignedly admitted the truth to herself.

They might not have anything in common and he might disappear into the misty night at any time, but no matter how cautious she'd tried to be, she'd fallen irretrievably in love with the man destined to break her heart, destined to leave her life in shambles.

She'd be cautious tomorrow.

Tonight, she only wished to be here.

She pressed up on an elbow and leaned down to kiss his welcoming lips.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Remington handed Laura a cup of tea, then tucked himself into the corner of the couch in his flat, and eyed Laura nervously. She was furious with him, that he knew. He had some idea of why, between the Agency's license being revoked and for what she'd _interpreted_ as his lack of help on the Westfield of investigation. All of it exacerbated by… what? Well, the answer to that 'what' was precisely what he didn't know, but his instincts told him it was whatever that 'what' was which lay truly at the heart of her fury.

Their troubles hadn't begun with the Westfield case, of course, but somewhere in between their return to Vegas and two evenings past… the night he'd dozed off as she'd revisted the case they'd just closed and, apparently, had begun to tell him of the Westfield matter. He'd revisted what he'd said, what he'd done, in the week since their return, only to come up empty handed. Absent that little nap, he'd been on his best behavior. Not a single plot, ploy, gambit… not a single lie, neither big nor small, told. He'd been attentive, engaged, following her cues as he'd always – well, almost always – done. Still, she'd smiled less often as the days had passed, and had become increasingly more stiff in his arms.

Now, he could only wait her out, for the look on her face said she was about to tell him what was on her mind. In the meantime, perhaps a bit of chatter about work? Shop talk, after all, was something that generally put her in a better mood.

"You know I, uh," he began, scratching at a leg nervously, "Took the opportunity to look over some of your old case reports. And I must admit you used quite a bit of creativity in putting them together." She took a long swallow of the tea, before sightlessly setting her cup on the saucer.

"That was before you were you," she answered in a voice that was distinctly distant, while she stared straight ahead at nothingness. "I still had to keep alive the illusion that there really was a Remington Steele." His heart began to pound, as he set his own cup carefully, slowly, back on the saucer he held in hand.

"Yes well, uh," he answered, hesitantly, brushing hair off his forehead with an anxious hand, "Despite all that I don't think we're gonna have any trouble in getting our license restored." He ran his tongue around his mouth, frowned worriedly at her profile. A childhood of abandonment had honed his instincts well, and he braced himself, dreading what was to come. Leaning forward, she placed cup and saucer on the coffee table, clearly troubled.

When her investigation into William Westfield's background had begun, she could've never imagined the outcome. She leaned back slowly, until her back rested against the cushions, her eyes downcast.

"Not having it has, um, given me time to think." For the first time since she'd arrived, she looked fully at him. What he saw in her face, merely confirmed what he knew was to come: Her sad, yet distant eyes, the strain around them, the twitch of her left brow.

"About what?"

"Is that piece of paper the only thing that's keeping us together? Do we really have anything else in common besides this agency?" His lips lifted in a nervous smile, but she could see the disbelief in his eyes.

"Laura, if you're talking about my allergy to legwork—" He swallowed hard, unable to to finish the thought.

"No, it's got nothing to do with that," she replied, slowly rising to her feet, putting space between them, before she turned to face him. "Don't you see? I mean, losing our license may be the very best thing that ever happened to us. Maybe it'll give us time to think about how we really feel towards each other, outside work. All we've ever done is play trial-and-error with our personal relationship, as we try to squeeze it into our professional one."

"Are you saying it hasn't worked?" Her gut clenched at the naked hurt she saw in his eyes. Sitting on the arm of a chair, taking her weight off her shaky limbs, she forced herself to press on.

"Are you saying it has?" she challenged, quietly.

"Well, perhaps not consistently, but-"

"All I'm suggesting is… that maybe we take some time, think about it for awhile. That's all." He swallowed again, then nodded slowly.

"And should I say I've no need for time?" he inquired, his tongue flicking out to moisten dry lips. She gave her head a slow shake, as she stood.

"I still do," she answered in that same, carefully controlled voice. "I should… go." She took a half dozen steps towards the front door, then stilled. Her brows were furrowed, her eyes moist, when she looked back over her shoulder at him. "I'm sorry," she told him, her voice cracking. She closed her eyes, drew her lips in, then forced herself to take in a slow deep breath. Opening her eyes, turned her focus back to the door, while picking up her purse off the credenza.

Something inside him broke, as she reached for the doorknob. He'd allowed her to end them in Cannes, had put up no fight for fear she'd send him fully on his way. No, he resolved, this time she wasn't walking away from him, from them, without a fight. He sprung to his feet, strode towards her.

"Laura, wait, wait," he called to her, grabbing her upper arm as she began to turn the knob. "I think we need to talk, don't you? I'll make us a bite to eat, we can work through—" She leaned her head against the door in dismay.

"I can't," she forced the words past her lips, "I have a flight to catch in two hours."

"Going to your mother's, to clear your head?" he speculated.

"No," she turned to face him, her brown eyes swimming with guilt and a bit of defiance. "To Mexico City." It took a second for her meaning to register, but the instant that it did, his eyes turned to ice, his jaw clenched.

"I see." And he did. He reached around her and opened the door. "Best be off then. Wouldn't want you to miss your flight." She hesitated.

"Mr.—"

"Bye, bye, now," he cut her off, waving a hand towards the door. She drew herself up to her full height, then bestowed him with a nod of her head. She considered it a victory that her face hadn't crumpled and her eyes hadn't filled with moisture until she'd turned around.

Still, she shuddered when the door slammed behind her with a resounding clap of wood against wood, then heard the lock engage after.

He couldn't have said it more clearly had he spoken the words. For in deeds he'd just told her she was no longer welcome in his home.

With a pat of her hand against her stomach, she straightened her shoulders and walked to the elevator.

What she couldn't understand was why the sounds of those locks engaging left her feeling emptier than she had when she'd come home to discover her empty house and a note from Wilson informing her that he'd left.

* * *

By the time he arrived at the office of the State Licensing Board, Remington's anger was a real and living thing. Bergman, the crooked investigator who'd taken the Agency's license, was ill-prepared to handle the man who appeared before him. This wasn't the Remington Steele who'd nervously fidgeted before he'd ducked out of their meeting. By the time Bergman had been dragged the length of the conference table then thrown into the wall, he'd recognized the murderous intent in the detective's eyes and was prepared to capitulate to every demand, rather than risk the consequences.

Thus, Remington had left the State Licensing Board's offices with the Agency's fully reinstated license and a stamped, manila envelope in hand, with Bergman trudging docilely aside him to the limosine. By the time the man had shared his confession with the LAPD, Remington's anger had veered towards deep, aching regret.

Whatever had been troubling Laura this past week could have been resolved. He'd been confident of that straight along, even if he'd no idea what it was she was masticating to death. The loss of the Agency license had been the death knell to any hope they'd had of making a go of things.

"Stop here, Fred, if you don't mind," he called to the Agency chauffer from the back seat of the limo.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Steele," Fred answered, as he pulled the limo over next to the curb.

Remington stepped from the limo then walked briskly towards the pubic mail box. It was only when he stood in front of it that he paused. Remorse was all he knew as he stared down at the license, for mailing it to Laura meant he was closing a chapter of his life which had spanned nearly three years. He asked himself one, last time if there was any way but this, then shook his head.

There was nothing left for him here now. He dropped the now sealed envelope into the mailbox and returned to the limo.

With a final look at the night-lit vision of the city he'd come to consider home, he leaned down to speak through the open passenger window.

"Home, Fred." The words tasted bittersweet against his tongue. How many times has he said them across the years? Enough so that they'd come to mean something to him.

Two-and-a-half hours later, he took his seat in the first class compartment of the plane and, when the plane lifted into the inky night, the man that had been Remington Steele disappeared.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 _She and Mr. Steele were dressed in burlap robes, kissing as though they'd just discovered the sweetest of fruits._

 _Who are you? Where did you come from?_

 _She could feel his long, elegant fingers stroking her neck, diving into her hair, as they kissed._

 _Michael O'Leary, Ireland. Paul Fabrini, Italy. John Morrell, France. Richard Blaine, Australia. Douglas Quintane, England._

 _His lips devoured hers, and she allowed him to feast at will, while doing some sampling of her own._

 _Who are you?_

 _She was opening the doors to the closets in his flat, found them barren._

 _Who are you?_

 _She rushed to his dresser, opening drawer after drawer, all of them empty._

 _Who are you?_

 _She sank down onto the end of his bed, shoving her clasped hands between her knees._

 _He was gone._

Laura woke with a gssp, lunging into a sitting position as she pried her eyes open while her alarm blared from beside her bed. _Another nightmare_ , her mind registered as she dragged a hand through her sleep touseled hair. _No, more memories of what I had and what I lost,_ she corrected herself, as she reached for the alarm and turned it off.

Bud and Norm's wake up show had gone by the wayside twelve days before, their cheery voices promising a beauiful day ahead feeling like a mockery. One day after he'd left, she'd already resolved herself to the reality that she'd wake each day alone, she'd work alone, she'd eat alone then go to bed, still alone. There was nothing, whatsoever, beautiful about that. It was dark, dismal, especially after living for so long in his warmth.

In a moment of blind panic, she'd driven him away.

In her bathroom, she unbuttoned Mr. Steele's pajama shirt that she'd slept in, and hung it on hook on the back of the door. Turning on the faucet of the shower, she stepped under its still too cold spray, oblivious to the temperature.

The only pieces of himself that he'd left behind were his posters, his bedding and the contents of his hamper: A pair of his pajamas, two dress shirts, a pair of socks and a pair of boxers. She'd gathered up his pillows and clothing, taking them with her to the loft. She'd slept wrapped in a piece of his clothing, with her head on his pillow, hugging the other to herself, each night since.

She hadn't meant to hurt him. She hadn't. She'd only meant to protect herself. There had been so many unanswered questions. How did he feel about her? In his eyes, was this a casual fling or something more? Would their differences drive them apart, until even their partnership lay in tatters at their feet? Would his dreaded past come back and sweep him away? There were the doubts, mostly about herself. Would she ever be able to trust that she wouldn't look up one day and find him simply gone? Could she be with him and keep her head about her? Could she be with him, and not lose herself in him?

The doubts, the questions had collided and she'd been buried by her fears, her insecurities.

What they'd found in one another had been too much… yet, not enough.

 _William_.

His name flitted through her mind, as she stepped out of the shower. Patting herself down, she wrapped the towel around herself, then began her morning routine by rote

William had been another casualty. He was a good man, a kind man. She hadn't meant to lead him on, but she'd done exactly that, for no matter how decent and kind he was, he'd never stood a chance. Willingly or not, she'd given her heart to Remington a long time ago and she couldn't just choose to take it back.

Even though there were many a day she ferverently wished she could.

 _Like now._

She wrapped the elastic around the end of her french braid, then pressed her hands against the bathroom counter and dropped her head as the now familiar ache in the pit of her stomach made its presence known.

 _He left._

She tilted her head back and blinked her eyes rapidly while staring at the ceiling.

How could she have expected him to do anything else?

 _The last time, he'd stayed,_ she defended.

 _The last time was different,_ the devil on her shoulder countered.

When she'd ended them in Cannes, they hadn't yet crossed that line – although she had wanted them to the night she'd discovered his latest gambit run afoul. They hadn't been spending nearly every waking moment together – and every moment they slept – for weeks.

She wanted to do the thing her mother had always warned her it was impossible to do: turn back time to five weeks before.

She wanted to be stranded in that cabin in Aspen again. She wanted to spend long days and nights making love with him. She wanted to see him propped up on an elbow on the bed, holding out a fork, his eyes blue-hot, as he fed her a bite of dinner. She wanted to argue fiercely over a game of Monopoly. She wanted to spend two hours heating pot-after-pot of water so they could take a bath. She longed to be laying before the fire with him, laughing with him over the tale of his first, disastrous attempt at cherries jubilee. She wanted to feel him wrap his body around hers in the minutes before they fell to sleep, his rich, woodsy scent surrounding her as she snuggled closer to him and took his hand in hers.

She wanted to hear him say 'Laura' in the way only he could, just… one… more… time.

Five weeks ago, she'd been happier than she'd ever been before. With the walls between them gone an easy camraderie,a quiet intimacy had settled around them.

Then, she'd panicked and had thrown it all away.

Five weeks.

Her eyes widened, her lips parted, her back straightened.

 _Five weeks._

With no little dread, she picked up her pack of birth control pills, backed up, then sat down heavily on the toilet before popping open the case holding those pills. Two more peach pills, then on Sunday, the pack announced, twenty-four hours of misery to start her cycle.

But the pack was wrong.

She'd begun a new pack of pills the Sunday after she'd arrived in Aspen. She'd missed her pill on Wednesday and Thursday, had made up for it by doubling up on Friday and Saturday. But, when they'd returned to LA on Saturday evening, her pills had been no where to be found. She'd brushed the concern aside, simply retrieving a brand new pack from her bathroom drawer.

 _Her backup pack._

She dropped the packet of pills on the counter, forced herself to her feet. In the living room, she retrieved her date book from her purse, thumbed through it until she found what she was looking for.

 _No._

 _God, no._

 _Nonononononono._

She took a deep breath, forced the emotions back, approached the matter logically, analytically.

She been on the pill a dozen years. At each annual appointment, her doctor reminded her: Miss one pill, take it as soon as you remember. Miss two pills, double up for two days. The risk of pregnancy would be minimal, given her pill was of the combined estrogen and progestin variety. Miss a third, use back up contraception for the remainder of the month.

She'd missed her pill Wednesday and Thursday mornings while they were taking refuge in the small cabin, then on Friday, after their rescue and on Saturday, she'd doubled up, exactly as instructed.

She began to relax.

She'd been a few days late before in the past, had even skipped her cycle altogether, during particularly stressful periods of her life: after her father had left, during finals in college, after Wilson had left.

She tried to recall the few things Frances had shared with her about the early days of pregnancy. She pressed a hand against each of her breasts. No, no more tender than they normally were during her cycle. True, she hadn't had an appetite, but she hadn't been nauseous either. Yes, she was tired, but she also hadn't slept worth a damn for more than two weeks.

Her heartbeat slowed its rampant pace, setted into a normal rhythm.

 _I'm fine. I'm fine,_ she told herself, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead as she tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. _Thank you, thank you, thank you._

She returned to the bathroom where she fished out a new pack of pills from a drawer. She carefully punched out the first five pills, then tossed them and the almost empty pack in the garbage. Sixteen days from now, she'd again reach those cursed green pills, only this time she'd look forward to their announcement of what was to come.

* * *

 _Three weeks later_

Laura sat curled up on the couch in Remington's flat, wrapped in a blanket and staring out the terrace doors. She'd come here directly after work, some four hours before. It has seemed… right… somehow, to be here.

Those little green pills had heralded it was time for her cycle to begin… three days ago… and it hadn't.

For two weeks she'd dilligently ignored her aching breasts.

For nearly a week, she'd ignored the twinges of nausea hovering on the outskirts of her mind when she woke each morning.

But she'd been unable ignore those little green pills and how they seemed to mock her.

She couldn't put off taking the test any longer. There were decisions to be made, and the clock was ticking on at least one option. Here, where his presence surrounded her, she felt as though they were sharing the news together… to some small degree, at least.

She _needed_ him to be here when she looked at that little plastic wand, which lay abandoned on the coffee table where she'd tossed it hours before. When the test came up negative, they could share relieved laughter, pop open a bottle of good champagne, and celebrate. And if that test were positive?

Then they could make the decision on what to do, together. As it should be. Should have been.

 _Thirty-two days_. Her Mr. Steele had disappeared into the night thirty-two days ago. She'd concocted a story for Mildred: Mr. Steele's away on a case. It's all very hush-hush, need to know only… even _she_ didn't know all the details. Mildred had bought it, hook, line and sinker, enamoured with the cloak and dagger of it all. For the first two weeks. Then, over the last two, their sargeant-at-arms had become increasingly more agitated. Only that morning, she'd cornered Laura.

"Where _is_ he, Miss Holt? Why has he abandoned us," Mildred had demanded to know, in a tone akin to a wail.

"Mildred, get a grip on yourself. I told you that… he's away on a case."

" _What_ case? Why didn't he tell me? It's not like him to take off like that. I mean, without a word, a note… a collect call," the older woman argued.

"It's all very hush-hush. I don't even know all the details myself."

Her assurances had soothed Mildred, as much as they'd comforted herself: Not at all.

She snorted a silent laugh from her position on the couch. Two weeks before, she'd presented Mildred with a list of five names, the Agency's trusted secretary having no idea of the man behind the names.

"Mr. Steele needs you to locate these five men, so he can speak with them." She held up a hand, making it clear no further questions were invited. "That's all I know. Give it the full work up. Flights, worldwide. If one of them shows up, check hotels, boarding houses, B&B's, even hostels in that area. He needs to know where to find them."

Mildred had agreed, eagerly, if for no reason other than the fact the directive had come from the Boss.

He was making it difficult for her to trace him, as she'd known, instinctively, that he would. Richard Blaine had departed Los Angeles on a flight to Perth, Australia. He'd stayed at the Westin Perth for six days before Paul Fabrini hopped a flight from Perth to Genoa, Italy. Fabrini had stayed at the five-star Bentley Hotel for nine days, before John Morrell flew from Genoa to Saint Tropez. Mildred had never been able to ascertain Morrell's hotel of residence while in Saint Tropez, but it had mattered little given only four days after Morrell's arrival, Michael O'Leary had flown the blue skies towards Dublin.

It was only a matter of time before Douglas Quintaine made his appearance and once he did…

 _Then what?_

She sighed heavily. She didn't know. She wanted him home, but given the trouble he was taking to disappear, it was clear he was doing whatever he could to shake her off his trail, likely lamenting he'd no recourse but to use the passports he had at hand.

She blinked her eyes rapidly. She couldn't cry… _wouldn't_ cry. She hadn't shed a tear since he'd left and wouldn't now, as in her mind, those tears would be a concession, an admission that he was gone for good. And _that_ she couldn't accept. She'd crumbled when her father had left. She'd fallen apart when Wilson had walked out. But for her Mr. Steele, she'd fight.

She sighed again. In the meantime, there was another battle to conquer and it was the one she was fighting with herself. She turned her head and stared at the little white wand lying on the coffee table. Digging deep, she found the chutzpah to reach for it, as she closed her eyes.

She said a little prayer, then opened her eyes and peered at the little window which would announce how much her life might change, if at all.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Remington picked up the phone in his suite at the Bentley, the swank, five-star hotel where he'd been staying the past four nights since his arrival in Genoa. Despite the opulence of his surroundings, unlike the years he'd spent globetrotting, the hotel's numerous amenities held no appeal. Much to his consternation, he longed for his kitchen, his telly, his bed. With very few changes across the years, he'd turned the flat into his own, and had discovered there was something to be said for knowing where you'd sleep that evening… and the next and the next and the next. He'd come to look forward to it, to rely on it… to appreciate it.

Much as he'd come to see the life he'd been living the past three years as his own.

He shook away the thought and reached for the phone again. _Time to move on, Steele, old sport,_ he reminded himself for he umpteenth time since he'd departed LA beneath the shadow of the night. He punched in a phone number long ago memorized, then waited for the call to be answered.

"Good morning to you," a woman's voice offered over the line. He chuckled to himself. After all these years, Daniel's housekeeper still refused to answer the phone with the customary 'hello'.

"Good morning to you, as well, Mary, darling. I need to have a word with Daniel. Is he about?" He listened as Mary gasped on the other end of the line.

"Harry? Is that you, lad?" He chuckled warmly, having many years before accepted he'd always be a 'lad' in Mary's eyes.

"Never could sneak anything past you, could I?" he teased.

"Why, Harry, as I live and breathe! Thought you'd fallen off the ends of the earth, I had," the elderly housekeeper scolded him as only she could. "Believed Daniel was telling tall tales again, I did, when he said you were off playing a fancy, schmancy detective in America."

"No, no, that's all true enough. Is Daniel in residence?"

"Not due back from his villa for another week or so. Says London winters are too hard on him these days." She clucked her tongue, disapprovingly.

"I'll ring him up there, then," Remington replied.

"Harry, you need to stop 'round for a visit one of these days." He answered, in part, with a dry laugh.

"As it happens, my schedule is fairly open these days. I may just do that. Take care, Mary."

He hung up the phone then retrieved his address book from his overnight case. Looking up the number, he picked up the reciever and dialed again.

"Allo?" Daniel's voice came over the line.

"Hello, Daniel," Remington answered.

"Harry, dear boy. To what do I owe the honor?" Daniel's voice boomed. At his home in Cannes, he picked up his drink, and walked outside to stand on the terrace.

"I need your help, Daniel…"

* * *

Remington sounded a wry laugh, as he peered out the window of the car, and recalled what Daniel had once said of his dream home in the South of France.

* * *

" _ **Next stop: a modest villa in the South of France where I can spend my declining years watching bikini bottoms frolic across the Mediterranean."**_

* * *

"A _modest_ villa, wasn't it?" Remington remarked as he climbed out of the sleek, black Porsche.

Daniel had picked him up at the airport in St. Tropez, as they'd planned, then had driven them nearly two hours east to his home in Pointe-Croisette, located only few minutes outside of Cannes. Daniel considered the house before them.

"In comparison to some of our summer homes, at least," Daniel dismissed, then smiled at Remington. "You know how much I do enjoy entertaining."

"Mmmm," Remington hummed his agreement, "That I do." He stepped inside after Daniel swung open the door and indicated the younger man should precede him. Remington whistled low. "It certainly meet your standards."

White marble floors gleamed in the sunlight cast off by the wall of windows that seemed to span the length of the western facing home, offering stunning vista's of the Mediterranean and house scattered hillside just beyond. While Remington assimilated to the new surroundings, Daniel strolled into the open dining room to pour them each a scotch.

"Nice view," he complimented, with a nod of his head, accepting the glass Daniel handed him. Daniel's smile had a mischevious glint about it.

"You've no idea just how stunning it is, my boy, but I'm sure you'll discover that for yourself," Daniel laughed, rocking back on his heels.

"Dare I ask?"

"Five suites above, one here on the main level. You can choose from any of the rooms above, save the one Gwen is currently occupying on the far right." Remington choked on a mouthful of scotch.

"Gwen?!" he sputtered. "As in Reggie Whitewood's _cousin_ Gwen?" He recovered quickly, as he cleared his throat, and managed to weave an air of bemusement into his voice. "I've never known you to… partake of a woman's delights…" he offered, with a pair of raised brows for his mentor, "…for more than a few days."

"I haven't sipped from that particular well in some time," Daniel laughed. "Conniving though Gwen may be, I don't mind offering her a bit of hospitality when she passes through. Her exploits can be… entertaining." He raised his own brows at Remington. "Should you be interested in dipping your toes in that pool, it's fine by me," he assured, giving Remington a slap on the shoulder for good measure. "Harry, go," he ordered, waving a hand towards the stairs. "Select a room. Unpack. When you're done, we'll have a couple drinks, and enjoy a few rounds of billiards."

In other words, there was a talk to be had. Nevertheless, Remington gave a nod of his head, then left the house to retrieve his luggage from the car. Daniel's shrewd eyes followed his protégé out the door, before he turned and stepped out on the balcony.

He'd lay odds the inimitable Miss Holt was somehow at fault for this. _What had she gotten Harry into this time?_ he wondered. His eyes narrowed on Remington's back as he traveled up the stairs with his bags. _No,_ he corrected himself, his narrowed eyes on Remington's retreating form, _It was more than that._

When Harry had reached out to him for a hand, he'd been annoyingly tight lipped. He needed a decoy to throw whomever might be following him of his track. In exchange, the chap who posed on him would be given a healthy sum to line his pockets along with an all expense paid, five-star holiday in Dublin and London. Elsewise, he'd shared no more than he'd like to come visit for a spell, should Daniel have the room.

He'd taken care that Harry not see his concern reflected on his face when he'd stepped out of the gate at the airport. The boy looked like he'd been to hell and back – face drawn, skin palid, eyes dull, the strain around them apparent. He'd seen Harry in such a state but once before, when he'd believed that conniving schemer, Anna Simpson, to be dead, and that the fault for that lay at least partially with him. But, even then, he hadn't looked quite so bad as this. Then, his anger with the forces who'd condemned him to this fate emanated from him, even as his grief swirled aroud him. But the young man who'd emerged from that passageway? He looked like a man who'd resigned himself to his fate.

If anyone would know that look, it was Daniel, for the same man had stared back at him in the mirror for every morning, each night, for thirty years.

And, so far as he knew, only a the loss of a woman could be the cause of it.

Yes, he'd lay odds Miss Holt was at the center of it all. The only question was… how?

* * *

By the time Remington arrived in the game parlor, he'd chosen his room, unpacked, showered and changed, although he hadn't bothered to shave. He drew his hand through his still damp hair then accepted the snifter of fine, aged port that Daniel offered him. Daniel's sharp eyes had taken notice of the tell, although the smile on his face, in his eyes, never faltered.

"Shall we make this a bit more interesting?" the older man suggested. "Nine ball. Say… twenty quid a point?"

"Make it fifty, and you're on," Remington upped the ante. Daniel cocked a brow in answer to the challenge.

"Fifty it is," he agreed.

Two-and-a-half hours, and one empty decanter of aged port later, Daniel was grinning even as his pockets were being fleeced by the man bent over table, determining the best shot. Harry's game had grown more refined over the years, more skilled, and he played with greater finesse. Clearly, his life in LA hadn't been all about the drudgery of work, for his protégé had been practicing. _Out from beneath his partner's watchful eye,_ he amended with some certainty, as he couldn't envision the uptight Linda in the type of establishment Harry most likely frequented.

Which reminded him…

"So, my boy, how is Linda these days?" Remington's blue eyes darted upward to look at Daniel, then away. He pointed his cue at the far right pocket.

"Seven ball, corner pocket," he announced.

"Should I expect her to appear on my doorstep at any moment, come to collect her Mr. Steele?" Remington stroked the ball with the cue, banking the seven in the corner pocket while lining the cue ball up nicely for the eight.

"I shouldn't think so," he answered, flashing Daniel a wide smile, although his eyes leveled a warning on Daniel that the subject he was considering discussing was firmly off limits. Having seen the warning, Daniel's smile merely grew larger.

"Don't tell me you and Linda have parted ways?" he probed. His brows lifted upon seen the muscle in Remington's jaw twitch. _Well, isn't this an unexpected turn of events,_ he mused. Harry free of Linda's clutches at long last. In the back of his head, he began to sort through the catalog of cons he and Harry had drawn up over the years and never acted on.

"Eight ball, left corner," Remington called.

"Well, that could only mean one of two things," Daniel pondered aloud. "Either little Linda finallly allowed you to soil her pristine linens, satisfying your curiosity…." The eight ball dropped neatly in the pocket. Remington focused on the nine ball while chalking the tip of his cue. Daniel dismissed the idea. "Or you finally realized she was doing nothing more than stringing you along, and you've, at long last, cut those ties." A pair of angry, blue eyes snapped in his direction.

"Leave it alone, Daniel," he warned, keeping his tone intentionally neutral. Daniel took a long drink of his port, continuing to study the young man before him.

"Nine ball, side pocket." The yellow and white striped ball dropped into the side pocket, as the cue ball reversed course, stopping in the center of the table. _What's a hundred-and-fifty more_ , Daniel shrugged.

"That's thirty-five points, at fifty a quid—"

"Hmmmm, yes, so it would seem. I'm good for it in the morning." Remington waved him off.

"Keep it on account. I'm sure there'll be a great deal of wagering going on while I'm here," Downing the last two sips of his drink, Remington set the empty snifter down on the table . "I believe I'll retire for the evening," he announced with a nod of his head.

He stopped in the doorway, and pressed a finger against his lips, considering his words. Several seconds ticked by before he leaned his back against the door jamb, staring straight ahead at nothing.

"You never did get Laura and I quite right, Daniel," he said, pensively. "Not everything is an elaborate ruse or a conquest to be had. Sometimes… just sometimes… a man is fortunate enough to discover something so rare… so infinitely appealing… that he is willing to go all in should the other player not quit the table." Nodding his head slowly, he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away. "Goodnight, Daniel."

Daniel's surprise was evident on his face, as he watched the younger man depart the room. When Remington was no longer in sight, Daniel turned his eyes to his snifter, examining the amber liquid as though it might answer the questions suddenly troubling him.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Remington walked down to the beach, the moonlight off the water guiding him through the inky night. Bending down, he rolled up the legs to his white, linen pants, then began his nightly walk along the water's edge.

A month. It was a full month today. A full month since last he'd seen Laura, had heard the lilting refrain of her voice, had breathed in her intoxicating scent… even longer since he'd held her, made love with her, had fallen to sleep with her body against his.

A full month, yet still only the thought of her brought the razor sharp plunge of a knife in his gut, the blade not having dulled at all with the passage of time.

And he thought of her all the time, leaving that knife cutting, twisting, from the time he woke until sleep stole him away at night. Sleep where his bittersweet memories became dreams of when she'd been his, for all too brief a time.

The vision of her wickedly slim frame stretched atop his, her chin cushioned on her crossed arms, that lay resting against his chest pranced through his mind. He could feel the heat generated by their bare forms pressed together from chest to toe. He could see the thin sheen of perspriation on her forehead, the contentment in her eyes. Could hear the little tune she'd often hum when happiest. Could smell honeysuckle, grass and what he'd always imagined to be sunshine... a pure, sweet scent that dazzled his senses. His entire being ached from the mixture of memory and longing.

He'd known for years that he was in love with her. During that first year, attraction had turned to yearning; and an appreciation for her intelligence and creativity had formed the basis for an abiding friendship. By the time she'd fallen from that beam above the Federal Reserve, he known…

He was in love with her.

What a terrifying thought that had been.

He'd known he was in love with her. But it had taken losing her in Cannes to make him realize his feelings for her went far beyond a mere infatuation.

His feelings for her had taken root, had become deep, abiding. He was no longer _just_ in love with her…

He simply wholly and completely… loved her.

Enough so that he'd stayed, had endured her brazen flirtations with other men, had waited her out, until, at last, she'd let down her walls, offering them another chance.

Enough so, that thoughts of some form of permanency had bounced about in his thoughts.

Enough so, that in recent weeks he'd come realize only the ultimate form of permanency with her would suffice: Marriage, home, family, future.

He'd wanted it all with her. He'd wanted to go to the Agency with her each day, to see what kind of trouble they could get into, to steal heated kisses behind closed doors, to argue with her over the salient points of the case. He'd wanted endless nights of laughter and teasing as they made love. He'd wanted to watch her eyes glimmering with amusement, to see that dimple flash, in the moment before she leaned over from where she straddled him to kiss him. He'd wanted to feel his fingers tangled in her silken tresses, as he sampled the sweetness of her mouth. He'd wanted long nights of feeling her gentle breath against his chest as she slept nestled beneath his shoulder. He'd wanted to dance the night away in his living room with her… to light a fire and lay before it as they talked deep into the night…

He'd wanted to watch one day as she grew rotund with their child, and dreamt of the moment when his little girl would look at him with the loveliest brown eyes he'd ever seen, save one pair.

Then had come the crushing blow that she wished for none of it with him.

Had instead chosen another man. One she hadn't even known a week before she'd given herself to him.

If thoughts of her were akin to a the blade of a knife slicing him apart, piece-by-piece, then thoughts of another man touching her, kissing her… _loving her_ … was nothing short of torture. A torture he'd lived with from minute-to-minute, from hour-to-hour… day-in-day-out since the evening she'd ended them.

His only respite was those blessed… _cursed_ … dreams where she was his again, if only for a little while.

He sat down heavily upon the sand, drawing a leg up so he could rest an arm across it. He sat there, for hours, reminding himself time and again, she'd never made any promises, had only asked for them. And when that thought offered him no measure of comfort, he turned to the memories of their good days to keep him company until sleep seemed even a possibility.

* * *

Daniel leaned against the railing of the terrace, his eyes upon the young man who prowled the shoreline, despite the fact midnight had long ago passed.

Harry had been in residence for sixteen days, and still remained in the state in which he'd arrived: Melancholy and completely closed off. The only words he'd spoken about what had brought him to France were those he'd said that first evening. Any attempts to draw him out since had but met with a glacial warning of…

"Leave it alone, Daniel."

But what thought provoking words he _had_ shared.

* * *

" _ **Sometimes… just sometimes… a man is fortunate enough to discover something so rare… so infinitely appealing… that he is willing to go all in…"**_

* * *

Had Harry actually been entertaining the thought of shackling himself to the imperious Miss Holt? He'd dismissed the idea as preposterous a hundred times, only to revisit it again.

* * *

"… _ **should the other player not quit the table."**_

* * *

Even more tantalizing, that clue: infinitely easier to solve, yet far more perplexing. Miss Holt had quit the table, clearly. The possessive, territorial Miss Holt? The woman who'd once proclaimed…

* * *

 _ **"His days with you are over, Chalmers. He's with me now."**_

* * *

Frankly, Daniel was unable to imagine a single scenario in which the woman would willingly release her vise-like grip on Harry. Her hand may have slipped, but he simply could not believe she was prepared to set Harry free.

No, not her. And the shock of it all was that Harry had always seemed to enjoy being bound to her side. Of course, Daniel had known instantly after meeting Laura why that was: Despite the woman's prickly nature and her infallible knack for upsetting his plans over the years, she was the type of girl who made a man think of hearth and home… _if_ a man liked independent sort and was prepared to take on all the difficulties that came with women of such a mind.

Harry never could resist a good challenge.

Daniel chuckled aloud.

He'd never known anyone – man or woman – who understood exactly how to handle Harry… other than himself, of course. It was a craft, understanding Harry and his moods, for he was the amalgamation of all his past lives: The hopeful child who still believed there was goodness in this world, that one day he'd find a home where the people would wish to keep him. The angry, disillusioned teenager that Daniel had pulled from the streets, who'd learned to survive by never allowing anyone to get too close. The man who'd been taught to charm, but to never show himself to the world.

Harry's Miss Holt, however, handled him with an aplomb it had taken three times as long as she for Daniel to learn. She knew when a gentle hand was needed, and when a sound tongue lashing was called for. She was amused by his sulks, more than she was annoyed, but equally capable of either cajoling or brow beating him out of them. She let him get away with the little things he tried to sneak past her, and ripped the carpet out from beneath his feet for the big ones.

Most surprising, however, had been the way the woman had so easily seen through all Harry's personas to the man beneath. He was, after all, a man who craved acceptance, aspired to be respected, appreciated justice, loathed those who took advantge of the weak and longed for what it seemed to him everyone but he was entitled to: A home to call his own. The woman had offered it all to him on the proverbial platter with only one demand should he wish it to be his: Accountability. He, and he alone, would determine his fate. Rise to the challenge and it was his.

It was all Harry had ever wished for: To be fully in charge of his own destiny. _His_ actions, _his_ deeds, _his_ decisions alone would decide the course of his future.

Providence had, for once, been kind to his boy, setting Harry in Linda's path as it had – _not_ that he'd ever admit so much to either of them.

So, what obstacle had providence now thrown in Harry's way that the lad saw as so insurmountble he'd just accepted it as his due?

Daniel didn't know.

Yet, he had a sneaking suspicion the woman he'd come to respect and admire, wouldn't be quite so ready to toss in the towel, as Harry was.

So, he'd formulated a little plan. A damned fine plan, if he did say so himself. It would take precision and quite a bit of daring to pull it off. But should it work..

Daniel glanced at his watch and nodded his head in silent recognition that the time had come to implement that plan. With a final look at Remington, who still sat upon the shore unaware of anything around him, Daniel returned to the house.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"The Remington Steele Agency. Krebs speaking," Mildred answered the ringing phone at the Agency with a crisp, authoritarian voice.

"Ms. Krebs," Daniel greeted, drawing out her name. Her frown was immediate, as she tried to place the voice. She didn't have long to wait. "Daniel Chalmers speaking. How are you this fine day?"

 _Daniel Chalmers… Daniel… Chalmers,_ she searched her mind, then sat straight up in her chair. _Chalmers! Ho, ho! Not on my watch._ As dapper as the man was, he was trouble with a capital 'T'. She didn't bother to pretend she understood the relationship between the Boss and this Chalmers fellow, anymore than she understood dance the Boss and Miss Holt did around one another, but she knew bad news when she saw it.

"Whatta ya want, Chalmers?" she bit out. "The Boss is out of the country, so if you're sniffing around to draw him into one of your schemes, you can forget about it!"

"Actually," Daniel cleared his throat, "It's not Harry I was wishing to speak with, but yourself, Mildred." He add a touch of charm to his voice. "May I call you Mildred?"

"It's 'Ms. Krebs' to you, Chalmers. Anyone that drags the Boss into trouble is no friend of mine," she declared.

Daniel pulled the receiver way from his ear, as Mildred prattled on, and cocked a brow at it. This was neither the motherly figure Harry had long described nor the outlandish 'Mildred Groggins' who'd been part of the Duke of Rutherford debacle. How it was that Harry seemed content around two such salty women was beyond him. The decidedly cool reception also might make it far more difficult to draw the woman into his scheme than he'd anticipated.

"… Boss is in the middle of a big case. Neither he nor Miss Holt have time for whatever funny business it is that you have in mind," she finished.

"On a case?" he inquired. It was just the opening he needed. "Odd. Harry's been with me the last two-and-a-half weeks, and he's made no mention of a case," he feigned confusion.

Mildred sat back in her chair, stunned. _What's going on around here?_ she wondered. She shook off the suspicions that were now niggling at the corners of her mind.

"Just waiting until we finish tracing the passports," Mildred said with some confidence, "Then he'll be back on the trail—"

"Passports, did you say?" he interrupted. It couldn't be more perfect. "Are you a betting woman, Ms. Krebs?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I've been known to pull an all nighter at the baccarat table, to wrestle the one armed bandit now and then," she replied. _Can't blame a woman for trying to create a little mystique about her, can you?_ she mused.

"Excellent. Then I'd like to propose a little wager." She was instantly on the alert.

"What kind of wager?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Well, let's see," Daniel considered, as he stretched out in a chaise on the balcony outside of his bedroom. "Should I guess the names on those passports you're attempting to follow, then you'll allow me to have my say. Should I not?" He pursed his lips, recognizing it was one hell of a gamble. "Well, should I not, then once Harry arrives back in LA, my word of honor, I'll not 'drag him into' any more of my 'funny business' for a full year…" he proposed, then couldn't stop himself from adding, "Providing, of course, he doesn't wish to be… recruited."

Mildred gave his suggestion some thought. There was no way Chalmers could know the names on those passports, she reasoned. And if he lost? Well, she had no doubt there would be a big raise… maybe even an offer of investigator-in-training… in her future, once Ms. Holt found out she'd given Chalmers the old heave-ho for…

"Two years," she upped the ante. _In for a penny, in for a pound._

"Two…" Daniel sputtered, laying it on thick for the woman. "Harry's like the son I never had. I can't imagine not seeing the lad for—"

"Two years. Take or leave it," she pronounced. Daniel studied the nail on his ring finger, as he allowed the silence to draw out, as though he was giving considerable thought to her proposal. _Must remember to file that,_ he noted.

"It seems you leave me no other option," he sighed, as though defeated. "Very well, two years it is."

"Then let's hear 'em," Mildred demanded, a confident smile on her face.

"Well, now, strictly off the cuff you understand—" he 'stalled' for time.

"It's five-twenty, Mr. Chalmers, and I have a date with the Dragon Ladies at six," she prodded, having none of it. He lifted another brow. _The Dragon Ladies? How fascinating._

"Very well," he replied, amicably. "John Murrell, Douglas Quintaine, Paul Fabrini, Michael O'Leary. Now, what is that last fellows name?" he muttered. "Ah, of course. How could I forget? Richard Blaine."

The phone dropped from Mildred's hand. She scrambled to pick it up, as she tried to overcome her shock.

"Now how would you know that?" she babbled.

"All indentities Harry's used, now again, in the course of business for…" he shifted to an undertone, as though what he was about to say was a secret, "… _the company_. Rather impressive covers, should you ask me. All characters from Bogart movies – and we know how the boy feels about his movies - and each of those identies with an unscrupulous past. No one would ever suspect one of those personas and Remington Steele to be one and the same." Daniel found he was infinitely impressed with himself. Adhering pretty much to the truth, not only had he won their little wager handily, he'd also explained away those passport identities and how they'd come to be, while the revelation of those passports would lend support to their impending coversation.

Mildred, on the other hand, was torn between worrying about Laura's reaction should she find out about this little wager or demanding to know what the hell was going on. While Chalmers' reply had caught her off guard, he hadn't knocked her off balance enough for her not to realize…

 _Something stinks around here…_

And if she wanted answers, she was going to have to get them from the man on the other side of the phone call.

"No one can say I welch on a bet, so let's have it," she instructed, managing to dig out the gruff, no nonsense IRS auditor.

"You and I, my dear, are about to lead Miss Holt on a merry little chase…"

* * *

Mildred set the receiver of the phone down in the cradle for a third time. She stared at the phone where it hung on the wall in her dining room, trying to dig up a bit of chutzpah while reviewing, again, why what she was about to do might be underhanded, but for all the right reasons.

If Chalmers was right and the Boss wasn't away on a prolonged case, but he had _left_ because of a rift between he and Ms. Holt… Well, she'd do anything to see those two kids together. They were meant for one another, even if they were afraid to admit it.

Unconsciously, she rested a fisted hand against her cocked hip while she frowned.

She'd thought they'd finally figured it out. Something had changed between them while they were lost in the wilds on that ski trip. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, turning the sexual frustration that had swirled between them since she'd starting working for them into something honest and genuine. Oh, they hadn't said they'd finally hit the hay together, but they hadn't needed to either. She hadn't lived fifty-ni-… forty-five years and worked as a cynical auditor for two decades without having learned to read people. And those two? They had left infatuation in the rearview mirror for something more durable: love.

They'd had it all: their partnership, friendship, and, at last, a relationship that was unquestionably… personal.

And if what Chalmers said was true, they'd gone and thrown it all away… for what?

Her gut told her, whatever it was, surrounded that nastiness with the Agency losing it's license. After weeks of warm glances, quiet tones and secret smiles, the tension between the two of them had been more than obvious, at times oppressive, even.

A glance at her calendar while Daniel was speaking had confirmed it: Richard Blaine had left Los Angeles for Perth on the same night the Agency's license had been revoked. The following day Mildred had arrived at the office to find Miss Holt already there, despite the fact she'd announced the afternoon prior that she was going on vacation that evening and would be gone several days.

"Aren't you supposed to be on vacation, honey?" Mildred had prodded gently.

"Cancelled. Mr. Steele…" she'd cleared her throat as though something were caught in it, "Mr. Steele has been called away on case with international implications. There's no way of knowing how long he'll be gone, and someone needs to keep things running around here."

The following day, an envelope addressed to Miss Holt, specifically, had arrived. Miss Holt had stared at the envelope for some time before carefully opening it. Whatever was in that envelope had made the woman shove it into a desk drawer, before closing herself behind her office door all day. And when she'd emerged? She'd looked as though she'd lost her best friend.

After Mildred had hung up with Chalmers, she'd – with no little guilt – gone into Miss Holt's office and opened the drawer where Laura had shoved that envelope and its contents weeks before. Mildred had recognized the Boss's handwriting immediately, and finding the restored Agency license within, all of Chalmers' beliefs appeared to be supported by the evidence. Still, she had covered all the bases and a search of flight manifests for Remington Steele had yielded bupkis. He'd never left Los Angeles… at least under his own passport.

If the kids needed a gentle shove to work things out, she was the woman for the job.

On the other hand, if Chalmers were wrong, Miss Holt would have her head… rightfully so.

 _Enough of this already, Krebs_ , she silently admonished herself. These were her kids. Right or wrong, she'd never forgive herself if Chalmers was right and these kids never found their way back to one another because she'd been afraid to stick her neck out.

Straightening her spine, she reached for the phone again.

Then jumped, let out a startled yelp, as it began to ring. Heart pounding against her ribs, she snatched the receiver up.

"Krebs," she barked.

"Mildred? It's Laura," Laura greeted, drawing out each word, in that habit of hers. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling well. I need you to clear my schedule in the morning so I can go to the doctor." Mildred's brow furrowed. Trying to get Miss Holt to see the doctor was like trying to get the Boss to do legwork voluntarily: It wasn't going to happen.

"Oh, Miss Holt, I was just about to call you!" Mildred colored her tone with excitement… she hoped. "Douglas Quintaine has finally landed!" Laura sat up, abruptly, on the couch in Remington's flat.

"Where?" she breathed.

"London. And you'll never guess who the flight manifest shows was in the seat next to Quintaine," she hinted, according to Daniel's plan.

"Who?" Laura immediately asked.

"Daniel Chalmers!" she answered, feigning disdain. "Is he involved in whatever the Boss is investigating?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's in it up to his neck," Laura bit out. She wasn't sure who she was more angry with: _him_ for leaving, or herself, for not realizing he'd eventually return to the only roost he'd known for any length of time. "Alright, Mildred. I want you to book me on the first flight out tomorrow afternoon. Does the manifest, by any chance, show Chalmers' address?" Mildred had to give it to Chalmers, he was thorough.

"No, but I have the credit card number his ticket was charged to," she relayed according to Daniel's script. "I can pull the credit header and have the address associated with the card in a snap."

"I'll call you when I'm out of my appointment, tomorrow," Laura promised.

Mildred hung up the phone then turned around and leaned against the wall, holding a hand to her chest, as she drew a deep breath. Picking back up the handset, she dialed the phone number she'd scrawled onto a piece of paper earlier that evening.

"Chalmers, speaking," a man answered.

"It's a go. Miss Holt will be on a flight to London tomorrow," Mildred whispered, even though she stood in her empty home.

"Excellent work, Ms. Krebs. It's no wonder Harry speaks so highly of you." Despite herself, Mildred blushed. "I'll call you before noon your time, tomorrow, and will let you know our next steps."

"I don't get it. Why send Miss Holt to London, only to then send her to Cannes?" she wondered.

"Ah, because not only do I need time to implement the second phase of this plan of mine," he answered, with a self-satisfied smile in his voice, "But Ms. Holt is always her most cheerful self when she believes she's on the trail of a mystery." He added rueflly, "And I think my health may depend on her being a good mood when she arrives on my doorstep."

Mildred couldn't help her smile. She was beginning to understand what the Boss saw in this Chalmers character.

* * *

Laura stomped down sidewalk on St. James Place toward Pall Mall where she'd seen several phone booths as she'd ridden in the taxi a short time before.

A dead end. It had been a dead end.

"I'm sorry, dear, but Mr. Chalmers just left on holiday," the housekeeper had announced. "I don't expect him back for several weeks."

"And Mr.-…" She'd caught herself in the nick of time. "And Harry?" she'd corrected. "Is he in residence?"

"I'm afraid he's off with Mr. Chalmers. Are you a friend of Harry's?" The housekeeper's curiosity had been apparent.

"I suppose," she drew out the second word, thoughtfully, "That would depend on what day you asked. Thank you. I'm sorry to have troubled you."

"No trouble at all, dear. A good day to you."

"To you too…" she'd returned, as if she'd really had any choice to do otherwise.

What she'd _wanted_ to do, was grab the housekeeper by the shoulders and shake 'Harry's' location out of the woman.

What she _did_ was stomp down the sidewalk in search of a payphone.

Slipping into the closest booth, she closed the door, then picked up the receiver and dialed the operator.

"I need to make a collect, international call," she informed the operator.

She waited impatiently, the toes of one foot tap-tap-tapping out her irritation as she waited for the phone to ring, then Mildred to accept the charges.

"Chalmers is 'on holiday'," she informed Mildred, dully.

"Miss Holt, I've been waiting to hear from you!" Mildred admonished. "I was expecting you to call as soon as you checked into the hotel."

"I haven't checked into the hotel yet, Mildred," she replied peevishly. Guilt kicked her in the shin when she heard Mildred's sharp intake of breath. "I'm sorry, Mildred," she apologized, sincerely. "The connecting flight in New York had mechanical problems and ended up departing almost three hours late, on top of my two hour layover. I only landed an hour and a half ago, and went straight to Chalmers'."

"I gotta tell you, Miss Holt, my gut tells me something stinks about all of this," Mildred announced. Laura grew still, wondering if Mildred had linked those passports to 'the Boss.' "So I did some checking around, a little legwork, if you know what I mean."

"Go on," Laura prompted cautiously.

"I got a notification late yesterday afternoon that Douglas Quintaine checked into the Stafford in St. James," Mildred explained. "But what sense did that make? If he's in cahoots with Chalmers, why isn't he staying at Chalmers' place? Chalmers ain't exactly living in a dump, at least from what property records show."

 _No, he's not_ , Laura mused. The house she'd just left was a historic, terraced home on one of the best residential streets in London, and if she had to guess, the house had as much square footage as the Gallen mansion. Funny, she'd always envisioned Daniel as no more than 'comfortable' whereas the house attested to just how wealthy he might be. But, Daniel's financial status aside, she couldn't think of a reason why Mr. Steele would stay at a hotel rather than at his 'mentor's' townhouse.

"So I called the hotel and talked with the clerk that checked Quintaine in," Mildred continued. With a shake of her head, Laura forced herself to pay attention. "At first this kid… Callum Rigsby… wouldn't play ball, but when I promised him someone would be by with a hundred quid 'tip' for his cooperation, he changed his tune."

"A hundred _quid?_!" Laura asked in dismay. "Mildred, do you have any idea how much a hundred quid is?"

"A quid is like our quarter, right? So twenty-five bucks? It seemed pretty cheap to get what—"

"Mildred, _a quid_ is just another name for the pound," Laura continued to lament. "That _little_ tip is nearly one-hundred-and-fifty dollars."

"It was worth it," Mildred brushed off. "This Rigsby kid described Quintaine as around forty, forty-five, average height, dark hair, stocky build, and with the mouth of a sailor. According to Rigsby, Quintaine had company when he checked in: A man, early sixties, tall, slim, salt-and-pepper hair. I faxed him Chalmer's picture from your file, and nada. It wasn't him!"

"I don't understand why this makes you think Quintaine and Chalmers weren't on that flight," Laura commented. She wanted nothing more than to check into the hotel, take a long, hot shower then to tumble into bed for several hours.

"I told you, something didn't smell right. So I contacted the hotel in Dublin where O'Leary stayed. _Same thing,_ " Mildred said with emphasis. "A man matching the description of the man accompanying Quintaine at the Stafford was also in O'Leary's company in Dublin…" She paused for dramatic effect, making Laura roll her eyes, and tap her toes harder.

"Today, Mildred…"

"So, I decided what the heck, may as well check out the hotels in Genoa and Perth too. And guess what?"

"Mildred…" Laura warned.

"The clerks at _those_ hotels described the man that had stayed there as 'quite refined', in his late-twenties to early-thirties, tall, slim, with dark hair, light eyes. It wasn't the same man as the one in Dublin and London. Then, bam," Mildred punched her palm with a fist, actually beginning to believe the fabrication, "It hit me!"

"Not hard enough as far as I'm concerned," Laura muttered under her breath.

"Why is it that out of all these characters, Morrell never stayed in a hotel? It's because he knows someone there, and went underground," she finished, proudly. Laura jerked up to her full height, her eyes widening.

 _Of course._ Why she hadn't seen it herself, she didn't know. Mr. Steele had laid a trail of breadcrumbs to follow that would, at the end of the day, take her absolutely no where, buying him time to erase his footprint quite permanently. A knife twisted in her gut at the thought he'd go to such lengths to avoid her.

"Book me on a flight to St. Tropez, Mildred. I'm going back to Heathrow. And I need you to do a property listing search along the Cote d'Azur for the following names: Henri Lebret, Joelle Lebret, John Morrell, Daniel Chalmers, Leighton Sinclair…" She searched her memory.

* * *

 _ **"I want to know everything I can about anyone who comes on to my mother. She's just been through a very unhappy romantic experience. I don't want to see her get hurt again," she'd told Murphy as she rifled through the suitcase belonging to Colonel Reginald Frobish. She had, and hadn't been, shocked when her search revealed four passports.**_

 _ **"Leighton Sinclair, Britain. Eric Gunnar, Sweden. Col. Reginald Frobish, Hong Kong. Daniel Chalmers, Canada."**_

* * *

"…Eric Gunnar, and Colonel Reginald Frobish." She frowned, then added. "And check flight manifests for the past thirty days for any of those names."

"You got it. Your boarding pass will be waiting at the gate. And Miss Holt?"

"Yes, Mildred?" Laura asked, her thoughts already on the new hunt that lay ahead.

"Don't forget to drop that 'tip' off to Rigsby. A woman's word is her bond, you know." With a roll of her eyes, Laura said goodbye to Mildred then hung up the phone.

Stepping out of the elevator, she strode in the direction of the Stafford. It would't hurt to have this Risgby kid take a look at a picture of Mr. Steele.

* * *

"I just spoke with Miss Holt. She should be going to the hotel to find Rigsby now, then I've booked her on the four o'clock flight from London to St. Tropez." Daniel did the fast math of flight time, coupled with time it would take to maneuver the airport and to travel to the hotel. Given her rigorous schedule the past thirty-six hours, he imagined she'd go straight to bed despite the early hour. Still, a man needed to hedge his bets.

"I imagine she'll go straight to bed, given the chase we've led her on," he mused, aloud. "Stall her until five pm Cannes time which will be…" He converted the times mentally, "…nine tomorrow morning for yourself."

"You got it," Mildred agreed. "I just hope you're right about this Chalmers, because if not, the Boss and Miss Holt may have both our heads." Daniel grimaced and rubbed at his neck.

"Yes," he drawled the word, "It's a thought that has occurred to myself, as well."

* * *

"End of business?" Laura practically shrieked into the phone when Mildred informed her of the delay. "The end of business," she repeated, no less enthusiastically. " _Mildred_ …"

"I don't know what to tell you, honey. Red tape can only be cut so fast. You're lucky it's only few hours, not days or weeks," Mildred reasoned.

"You're right, I know," Laura relented. Her shoulders sagged. "I just want to get this over with so I can get back home."

"It's only a few hours, kiddo. Hang in there," the older woman advised.

"I'm trying."

* * *

"Henri and Joelle Lebret, flew out of Cannes to Mexico City nine days ago," Mildred informed Laura when she called at five after five.

"No point in looking there, then," Laura concluded. "And the other names?"

"We hit paydirt. A villa in Pointe-Croisette, Cannes belonging to one Leighton Sinclair." Mildred rattled off the address. "I've already reserved you a room and a rental car should be waiting downstairs for you, as we speak."

"Thank you, Mildred," Laura told her, sincerely. "What would we do without you?"

As Mildred hung up the phone, her thoughtss were on what Miss Holt would do _to her_ should this all go south.

* * *

Remington tossed his charcoal pencil down on the tray of the easel in irritation. He'd worked on this sketch for most of the day, and still hadn't gotten the glimmer in the eyes quite right, much to his frustration. The incessant peeling of the doorbell downstairs did nothing, whatsoever, to appease his mood.

Standing, he stalked towards the door of his bedroom and swung it open.

"Daniel?" he belllowed towards the staircase. "Would you mind answering that?"

The bell peeled, gratingly, again. With a muffled curse, Remington strode down the hall, descended the staircase, then stomped towards the door. He took a moment to run hand through his hair, settling it, and forced a smile on his face, to greet whoever it was on the other side of the door….

* * *

 _ **A/N: A very happy birthday wish to BB80.**_


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

"Michael, darling, what a delightful surprise," the statuesque blonde oozed, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. Out of a habit long formed during their days of 'you're free, I'm free, why not?' he responded to her kiss. But the height of her shoulders, the size of the hand in his hair, the texture of the lips against his, the perfume surrounding him, the taste of her mouth were all wrong. He pulled away, and rubbed a hand against his mouth, removing evidence of the kiss.

"Felicia," he greeted. "I wasn't aware Daniel was expecting company," he imparted, as he turned and walked towards the great room. Felicia slipped her arm through his, a bit too possessively for his taste, and walked alongside of him. His brows furrowed briefly, as a queer thought struck him. Although he and Felicia had, on occasion, tangled the sheets together, he couldn't recall an occasion when he, Felicia and Daniel had been in the same part of the world at the same time. "Tell me, how did you and Daniel meet?"

"Kismet," Daniel answered, as he appeared out of his bedroom, draped in a dressing gown. He coughed several times as he approached the pair "Lovely lady, don't you agree?" he asked Remington, as he bent over Felicia's hand and bussed her knuckles. Remington's eyes flickered from Daniel to Felicia, then away.

"She's had her moments," he agreed, as he stepped to the wet bar. _Felicia and Daniel?_ He mulled the turn of events. The look in Daniel's was one that only appeared in a man's eyes once they'd sampled a woman's wares, so to speak. With a single shake of his head, noting his disbelief, he set the matter aside. Felicia and Daniel were consenting adults, both free to do as they wished. "Should I ask what the two of you are conspiring on?" He flipped three glasses right side up, then splashed a finger of scotch in each from the awaiting decanter.

"A couple of projects, actually," Daniel answered. His response was interrupted by another round of coughing, drawing a look of concern from Remington. "One of them possibly the robbery of the century, isn't that right, my dear?" he sought Felicia to confirm. An idea struck. "We could use your assistance, if you're interested, my boy."

"The magic is gone, Daniel," he answered quickly, with more of a bite than he'd intended. He held up a hand of apology towards his mentor. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Daniel waved him off. Nearly two decades of knowing the lad meant his occasional moodiness came as no surprise.

"Not to worry, Harry," he dismissed. "Given your time with Linda seems to have come to an end, I suppose I'd hoped we'd soon be traveling the continent together, relieving the wealthy of their ill-gotten gains."

"''Fraid not, mate," Remington quickly answered. "In truth, I've been thinking once I've settled in somewhere, I might try my hand in the market by day. I've had a fair bit of success during my time in the States." It was just the opening Felicia had been looking for. She turned to him, sliding her hands up his chest, over his shoulders, then loosely linked her arms around his neck.

"And by night?" she purred the question. As Daniel engaged in another coughing fit which drew Remington's concerned eye, he shrugged off Felicia's obvious inference.

"Another pursuit of a more personal nature, that can be only carried off alone," he told her, before returning his attention to Daniel. "Under the weather, Daniel?"

"I believe I'm coming down with a touch of something, now that you mention it," he confirmed after he caught his breath. "I wonder if I might impose upon you for a small favor." Remington eyed him warily.

"You know there's very little I'd refuse you," he answered, cautiously.

"I'd promised Felicia a night on the town, before we get down to business, so to speak," Daniel explained. "An early dinner at the Carlton, followed by an evening at the Croisette." He held up a hand again as he endured another round of coughing. "Of course, if you'd rather not—" Reluctantly, Remington conceded.

"No, no. Of course, I don't mind," he agreed, then added as an afterthought, "A night at the tables could be just what the doctor ordered. What time is your reservation?"

"Seven-thirty," Daniel quickly provided, before his protégé could change his mind. Remington checked his watch. Six-thirty. Plenty of time to make the reservation so long as they left shortly.

"Give me fifteen minutes to get ready." He eyeballed Felicia's attire and decided a suit would more than suffice. Turning on his heel, he left the room under Daniel's watchful eye.

"Tell me, Felicia, how is the guest list is coming along for the Earl's reception?" Daniel inquired. Felicia's eyes lit up with a gleam of greed.

As Felicia began a recitation of some of the confirmed guests, and what baubles might be expected, Daniel turned his thoughts to Harry and the soon-to-arrive guest.

He could only hope his efforts worked as intended. He'd given himself wholly to three things in the entirety of his life: The con, the woman he'd lost and the boy he'd found fighting to survive on the streets. Of the two things still remaining? Only for one would he lay down his life.

And it wasn't the game.

As it already stood, he was wagering Harry would forgive his interference should things not go as planned.

"If you're ready, Felicia," Remington announced when he walked back into the room, dressed for the evening. He wondered what had gotten into Daniel, given the way the man had started at the sound of his voice.

"Of course, darling," Felicia readily agreed, handing him the wrap she'd shed earlier. Always the gentleman, he stepped behind her and laid the wrap over her shoulders, then stepped to her and offered her an arm.

"I'll check on you when I get in," Remington told Daniel. "I shouldn't be late."

"I'm counting on it, my boy," Daniel answered, mysteriously, drawing yet another narrowed gaze.

The couple departed with Remington's suspicions aroused.

 _What in the devil are you up to, old man_? he wondered.

He'd have been shocked to learn he'd left the house in exactly the state Daniel had hoped he would.

* * *

Twenty minutes after Remington and Felicia left, Daniel emerged from his room wearing a white button down - hem left untucked - over a pair of tan, pleated pants. The look was deceptively casual for he'd planned the evening with all the precision he would a good sting.

With a glance at his watch, he pulled on an apron as he stepped into the kitchen. In short order, four slices of bacon sizzled in a pan while eggs boiled on a nearby burner; frisée and radicchio were washed, torn, and added to two bowls. The dishes of salad were placed back in the refrigerator to chill, and he turned his attention to rubbing down the filets. On tap this evening: Frisée with bacon and soft eggs, followed by pan-seared steak au poivre and roasted asparagus served with a crisp Spanish wine.

He and Harry had spent a number of years in the kitchen together preparing a meal, although the protégé had far surpassed the master in this regard. One had to wonder, he mused, how much more those skills had been honed since Harry had been in the States, given the many nights he'd been left to his own devices thanks to the elusive Miss Holt.

The peal of the doorbell tore Daniel from his thoughts with a smile. Sitting the pan of eggs under cool running water, he dried off his hands, and left the kitchen to answer the door.

 _Let the games begin._


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Laura stepped out of the rental car and stared at the beachfront home before her. She had no idea why she would have expected anything less after having visited Daniel's residence in London, but for some reason a small cottage, beach adjacent had been what she'd envisioned, not a home that from the outside suggested it could hold her old house two, if not three, times over.

It was mind boggling that this type of wealth could be achieved through cons, stings and trickery.

And gave rise to some thought provoking questions.

* * *

" _ **Harry is one of a kind. A true… artist."**_

* * *

From the beginning, she'd acknowledged Mr. Steele's talent, the extent of his knowledge which seemed unlimited when it came to art, jewels, security systems…

She laughed softly.

…And movies.

Most definitely the movies.

In fact, she'd always been of the opinion that Daniel believed 'Harry's' skills surpassed his own, and that had been the inspiration behind his multiple attempts to 'reclaim' his protégé. 'One of a kind.' 'An artist.' Descriptions of her Mr. Steele from Daniel's tongue had only supported her beliefs.

But if that were true, and Daniel lived like...

 _This..._

What kind of wastrel had Remington been that he'd landed in LA without much more than a couple pieces of luggage filled with clothes? Sure, he liked tailored clothing, Italian shoes, silk shirts, fine wines and even better food, but even those extravagances wouldn't have been able to consume to kind of wealth Daniel's homes suggested.

She shook off the thought, accepted that she was merely avoiding the inevitable…

Knocking on that door.

She turned and looked at the car… her means of escape.

What had made her believe she could do this?

She'd hurt him… deeply, at that. He had no idea that she hadn't been able to go through with it… Westfield… because of _him._ He had no idea that she loved him, had for a long, long time. And, with good cause, he wouldn't trust only her word on either, for she'd impeached her veracity by leaving him for another man.

She hadn't even had the time to fully gather her thoughts on the other matter. Closing her eyes she stroked a hand over her stomach.

And wouldn't be able to, until she knew if they could repair the serious tear in the fabric of their relationship… or if he'd have any interest, whatsoever, in trying.

Which, of course, she wouldn't know until…

With new resolve, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Five long strides later, she pressed her index finger against the doorbell.

Then straightened her back, tilted up her chin and adopted the icy calm façade for which Remington had once coined a phrase.

* * *

"Alright, Chalmers, where is he?" Laura demanded to know when the front door swung open.

"Linda?" Daniel drew out her name, scrunching his face comically, as though caught stunned and unaware, by her appearance. "What on earth are you doing here? For that matter, how did you know where _here_ is?"

"I'm a detective… Remember?" she asked, shortly. "Where is Mr… Harry? He and I need to have a little chat."

" _Harry?"_ he elongated the word again, drawing her suspicion. "Whatever gave you the idea he's here, my dear? Why I haven't seen Harry since our little escapade trying to pass him off as the Duke of Ruther—" His words were caught short when she pushed past him and marched into the house.

"Mr. Steele?" she called out before addressing the man that had closed the door and followed her inside. "I have it on good authority that he's been _with you_ the last several weeks." She stepped into the living room, and looked around.

"Misplaced your Remington Steele, have you?" he chuckled, as though the idea amused him. "Did the shackles slip?" She looked over her shoulder with narrowd eyes, then dismissed him as she walked towards the open terrace doors.

"The choice to stay was always his own," she replied coolly, as she took a step onto the terrace, finding it empty.

"That you've no idea where Harry is seems to suggest he has determined his time with you has come to an end, wouldn't you say?" He was ill-prepared for the stark hurt he saw flash across her face, before the cool mask of detachment fell back into place. He'd always enjoyed their witty, if combative, tete-a-tetes, slinging a barb here and there. The woman had always appeared impervious to insult. If anything the barbs piqued that fascinating temper of hers. Clearly, whatever it was that had Harry tied up in knots had the ability to wound her as well. In his mind, her reaction was further justification for continuing this little gambit of his. "Either way, I can assure you I'm quite alone," he informed her, stepping between her and the entrance to the kitchen. Winding an arm around her waist, he guided her back in the direction of the front door. "Should I hear from Harry, I'll be certain to mention you stopped by." She neatly stepped out of the frame of his arm, and spun in the direction of the kitchen again. He made a show of grabbing for her and missing.

"Aha!" she exclaimed. "I've never attributed gluttony to your long list of vices, Mr. Chalmers." A finger pointed to the two large filet mignons, lying seasoned on the plate before her.

"Uh, yes. I mean no. Cancelled date, much to my dismay," he explained, sweeping the plate off the counter and setting it in the refrigerator. "Lovely woman, too." He raised a pair of brows at Laura as he closed the door to the fridge. "First cousin to a Countess whose jewelry collection is considered amongst the most impressive on the Continent." Her eyes narrowed on him again.

 _Just what is he trying to drag Mr. Steele into now?_

"Terrible, terrible disappointment, her cancelling as she did." With a hand on her waist, he escorted her towards the front door. "In fact, I'd just decided a night of baccarat is what I needed to cure my ills." He swung open the front door. "I'll be certain to let Harry know you've popped by should I hear from him." Mouth agape, she stepped outside. "I really must be going now, should I not wish to be late. It's been a pleasure, Linda, as always." She turned around just in time to watch the door shut in her face.

Then sputtered in indignation as she stalked towards the rental car.

She didn't know who Chalmers _thought_ he was putting one over on, but it wasn't her. Whether Remington was there or not, he had been… very, very recently, the smell of his cologne still lingering in the air. Climbing into the subcompact car, she slammed the door behind herself and stared intently at the house before her.

Whether Remington didn't want to see her, or Chalmers didn't want her stealing away his star pupil, was inconsequential. What was that business about the Countess? Was he – even worse, were they – planning a heist, a con? There was no way of knowing unless she got into that house and looked around.

Daniel wasn't going to drag Remington back into the life. Not on her watch.

Her eyes fell on the silver Mercedes parked next to her in the drive and a plan came together in her mind. Turning the key in the ignition, she backed out of the driveway. Her drive to the house had confirmed there was only one way off the beachfront road Daniel's house was located upon. Two blocks away, she did a u-turn, and parked her car between two others. Reaching into the backseat, she picked up her fedora, then plunked it on her head. Sliding down in her seat, she watched the road.

Chalmers had to leave sometime, after all.

* * *

An hour-and-a-half later, Daniel smirked as he drove the Mercedes past Laura's parked car.

He knew she wouldn't be able to resist that little tidbit about the Countess he'd allowed to 'slip.' Had intentionally left her sitting there, stewing, for a spell. So long as the woman believed he intended to drag Harry into one of his 'tawdry' schemes, she wouldn't be able to resist sticking around to foil whatever plans Daniel had in mind.

Which gave she and Harry time to work things through.

And in the meantime? Well, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to have a bit of fun with the woman, now could he?

At the end of the road, he turned the Mercedes around, then drove back towards his home, parking a few doors down. With a glance at his watch, he decided fifteen minutes would serve nicely.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Laura slipped her lock pick set back in her purse, then stepped into the house, closing the door behind her. She listened keenly for several long heartbeats and heard nothing stirring within the walls of the dwelling. On quiet feet, she stole through the foyer then down the hall, until she entered the great room.

With an attentive eye, she discerned nothing had changed in this room since her visit, including the slightest hint of Remington's cologne. Further exploration downstairs revealed a guest bathroom, laundry room, and what appeared to be the master suite. A thorough search of that room had uncovered nothing suspicious, although it did confirm Daniel's wardrobe was as extensive and expensive as Remington's own.

Doubling back through the house, she climbed the stairs to the second floor. The first room to the right was a guestroom that appeared not to have been used in some time, the room directly across the hall a near replica of the first. The third room, on the street side, offered up a surprise: A shockingly well-organized and tidy home office. She located a safe behind a painting, useless, of course, since unlike her partner, her safe-cracking skills were non-existent. A search of the desk had given up nothing, other than an eye-popping balance on a bank statement under the name of Leighton Sinclair. She didn't even want to think about what other accounts might exist, bearing the name upon his passports.

The fourth room upstairs had been recently occupied by a woman, given the few items left behind: A nauseatingly expensive perfume on the dresser, and a box of opened tampons in the medicine cabinet. A guest of Daniel's? Or Remington's? Her stomach clenched at the thought of the latter.

It was in the final bedroom where she found confirmation that Remington, indeed, had taken up residence in the large suite overlooking the sea. She closed her eyes and inhaled, breathing in both his rich scent and the woodsy cologne he favored. If that hadn't been enough proof, on the dresser lay the watch with black leather strap she'd given him in celebration of his first anniversary as Remington Steele. She slid open the closet doors, looking into each, the clothes hanging there assuaging any fear she might have had that he'd taken flight again.

She fingered one of his white dress shirts, The evening of their 'rescue' from the cabin in Aspen, they'd made love, then had fallen asleep, bothering to do little more than tug a sheet up over their bare forms. When the need for the bathroom and caffeine had dragged her from her dreams, less concerned with her nudity than the nip in the air, she'd picked up the first piece of clothing from the floor that she'd seen: a shirt much like the one she was touching now. She'd drawn it on, rolled up the sleeves and slipped a single button through its corresponding hole.

Remington had awakened while she was on the phone with room service, ordering them breakfast, coffee and tea. The look on his face, in his eyes, when she'd turned around had left her heart racing, her blood pulsing. The proprietary gleam in his eyes may have offended her in another time and place, but that morning it had been accompanied by a warmth and vulnerability that, if she'd dwelled too long on its meaning, might have sent her seeking the escape of her room.

Instead, she'd watched as he pushed himself to a sitting position, then held out a beckoning hand to her.

"Come here, Laura," he implored.

With a smile that was purely for him, she'd settled her bottom on his lap, burrowed her fingertips in his hair and had drawn his lips down to hers. Several times, as they'd made love, she'd tried to shed herself of the shirt, only for his hand to brush hers away. He'd made love to her as thoroughly as if she were bare, working around, under, on top of the shirt while she shivered when the silk shifted against her skin providing a sensual experience all of its own. It had been one of the more erotic experiences of her life and she'd inadvertently, lightly, scored the back of his shoulders, the cheek of a bum with her nails when she'd at times try squirm away from the sensual onslaught, while at others she'd clutched at his skin as a climax washed over her.

From that morning on, it wasn't uncommon to find her wandering the house by day in one of his shirts, with or without a pair of shorts beneath or garbed in one as she leaned over a cup of coffee in the morning. Each time when his eyes first alighted on her dressed thus, those blue eyes would fill with that same look which became less frightening and more… exhilarating… each time she saw it.

She forced herself to step back and close the closet door, then found herself drawn to an easel curiously perched facing toward the wall in front of a pair of French doors. She gasped, when she saw the sketch he'd been working on: Her, sitting on her knees before the fire, her back completely bare, as she looked back over her shoulder at the artist.

She'd seen a glimpse of his abilities, when, during the Wayne case, he'd casually hand drawn a day's edition of _The Blaster_ comic strip, cleverly illustrated to convince their suspect his life was in danger. She'd been impressed, but still hadn't had any idea how truly talented he was.

 _How did I not know this about him?_

She lifted the large sketch pad from the easel and turned through the pages, mesmerized by each image created by his hand.

"I've always said Harry could have been one of the great art forgers of our time," Daniel commented from the doorway, taking some pleasure at how she was startled by his presence. To her credit, she recovered quickly.

"We had a case, not long ago, when he illustrated a comic strip to catch a murderer," she shared, setting the sketchbook back down on the easel. "He mentioned then that he'd had a little bit of commercial training."

"Until he discovered my motive for sending him to school," Daniel chuckled. "Even then Harry had very passionate views on some matters, but one could never anticipate when those mores would rear their ugly heads."

"Such as forging the painstaking works of someone else," she theorized.

"Walked away and wouldn't entertain a single notion of returning," he confirmed, then gave her an assessing look. "Now that my little secret is out, I'd wager it's safe to assume you've no intention of departing before you speak with Harry." Her chin tipped up a notch.

"It is."

"Then we may as well make the best of it," he suggested in an unexpectedly cordial tone that set Laura on edge.

 _What is he up to now?_ her instincts screamed at her.

"We'll see about that," she muttered beneath her breath. Much like Remington would, Daniel puckered his lips in amusement and laughed silently at her remark. At each encounter with the woman, he understood a little better what it was that drew Harry to her. She'd always be a challenge, that much was certain, and his boy certainly enjoyed the impossible. "What are you doing here?" she asked, as he took her hand and laid it on his forearm, escorting her downstairs. He raised a comical brow.

"Shouldn't it be I, my dear, asking that particular question of _you_?" Her eyes flickered away from his profile, uncomfortable, when a soft blush infused her cheeks at his valid point. But never one to back down, she squared her shoulders.

"And I would think _that_ was self-explanatory," she retorted. He patted the hand against his arm.

"I decided I'd prefer a quiet dinner in over the cacophony of the casino this evening," he offered, as a peace token. She studied his expression out of the corner of her eye. Had he known she'd return after he left?

He held out a hand towards the barstools at the counter, in offer of a seat, as he stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes followed him as he worked proficiently in the kitchen, removing the ingredients for the salad from the refrigerator. By the time the eggs were halved and the bacon was crushed, the leftover bacon dripping from earlier were sizzling in a pan. A few dashes of red wine vinegar were added to the pan, a tablespoon of olive oil, then he was tossing the salads in the warm concoction. In a flash, the salads were garnished with egg halves and bacon crumbs, and a bowl was set before her, along with a goblet of ice water. He opted to take his salad at the island, as he turned his attention to a platter of asparagus that he removed from the refrigerator.

"Did Mr. St-… Harry, learn how to cook from you?" If he was caught off guard by the question, he didn't show it.

"Learned from one another, might be more accurate," he mused, as he added the asparagus and olive oil into a mixing bowl. "When I first plucked Harry from the streets, I'd been long accustomed to taking my meals out." Into the bowl was added a drizzle of parmesan, a pinch of garlic and a dash of salt and pepper. "In those early days, Harry was hardly… presentable enough… to take to the establishments I favored. It seemed if we were to eat, the appliances in the kitchen would have to be put to work. I bought a couple of recipe books, filled the larder and…" He shrugged a shoulder, as he placed the cookie sheet of marinated asparagus into the oven. "It became a favored game of ours, seeing how one might outdo the other the next night. Eventually, we found more enjoyment by working in tandem, while discussing our day."

"French cuisine didn't seem a… daunting… task for a teenager to undertake?" she wondered, as he placed a cast iron skillet on the now lit burner.

"In the early days we were particularly enamored by Italian cuisine, or simpler fare that required more time invested, than any truly measurable skill," he waved a hand carelessly around the kitchen, indicating the meal he was cooking that evening. "Harry, as in most things, was far more skilled than I, expanding his horizons to include French cuisine, then Indian and eventually, on a visit, he'd added Greek to the list of his creations. Soon, he became the chef, while I was rendered to the status of 'prep cook.'" He chuckled. "I've many a fond memory of those evenings."

Laura pushed away the salad bowl and leaned back on the bar stool, taking a refreshing sip of cool water from the goblet in her hand. The salad had been tasty, but the dressing far too rich for her that evening. She continued to watch as Daniel moved fluidly through the kitchen, searing the steaks in a pan lightly coated with olive oil. The silence between them lingered as the steaks were removed from the pan and placed on plate, where the roasted asparagus joined the succulent slices of meat. Beef broth was added to the skillet, then cognac. The concoction boiled for a minute, maybe two, before he removed the skillet from the burner. Once butter was added to the liquid it was whisked until the butter fully melted, the sauce was poured over the steaks, and she found another plate set before her.

There was an ebb and flow to conversation during the meal, Daniel remaining in the kitchen, she on her stool as awkward silences were interrupted by brief periods of casual conversation. A hand over the top of the glass set before her was a signal she wouldn't be partaking of the wine that evening, but her glass of water refreshed was accepted with gratitude. She'd attacked the asparagus with relish while nibbling at the tender, juicy steak. He was nearing completion of his meal when the sound of the front door closing was followed by a woman's screeching laugh, and the rich, familiar timber of a man's answering one.

Nervously, Laura slipped off the barstool, smoothing her hands over blouse and skirt as she stood waiting for him to appear.

Then he was there.

Stunned blue eyes met hopeful brown ones.

Then, anger ignited in both pairs of eyes, as her eyes landed on Felicia and he accepted the woman standing before him wasn't a mirage.

"What is _she_ doing here!?" they demanded in unison.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Remington was the first to recover.

"I believe that question falls under the heading of 'no longer your concern,' Miss Holt," he snapped. The fury in his eyes had her unconsciously taking a step back and lifting a hand to stroke the base of her throat.

Felicia's manicured brows lifted in unhidden interest. So Michael had at last parted ways with little Lisa. A slow, predatory smile lifted the woman's lips. Lacing an arm through his, she stepped in close.

"We're not going to let Lisa ruin our evening, now are we, darling?" she asked with a pretty little pout.

Laura barely glanced at the woman, although her stomach dropped to the vicinity of somewhere around her knees. It took every bit of her fortitude to remain in the room, when what she really wished to do was flee to her hotel and burrow herself under the covers until the raw gaping wound that had appeared where her heart had once dwelled healed, making breathing a certainty again, rather than hoped for. She forced her brown eyes to meet his again.

"We need to talk," she told him, despising herself a little for her unsteady voice.

"To the contrary, I believe you said all there was to say when last we spoke." She blinked at the hardness of his voice. This was a side to Remington she'd, on occasion, seen a glimpse of, but never had it been directed towards her. She knew how to handle peevish Remington, sulking Remington, insulted Remington, even injured Remington. But the man before her was all of those things, surrounded by a wall of rage.

"Do you think I'd be here if that were true?" she posed the question, quietly.

"Frankly, Miss Holt, I don't give a damn as to why you are here," he replied, bitingly.

"Mr. Steele—" Her words were suffocated by the ferocity of his glare.

"Choose a name, Miss Holt, any name. I've probably answered to it before…" His comment was a deliberate reference to their mutual past. "Any name, _but that one,_ as we're both aware it was a name bestowed, but never earned." Ever the chameleon, he seemed to shrug off his anger in a heartbeat, as he turned to Felicia and lavished her with a charming smile while the tip of single finger traced her jaw. "Allow me to see you to your hotel?" he offered with a suggestive lift and drop of his brows, the performance far more for Laura's benefit that originating from any true interest. He had the satisfaction of watching the color drain from Laura's face.

"Have something wicked in mind, darling?" Felicia purred, casting a smug smile upon her former competition for Remington's attentions. His lips lifted in a crooked smile.

"I might," he hinted, flirtatiously. He nodded in the direction of the front door and held out a hand. "Shall we?" Felicia gladly walked ahead of him, his hand at her back in manner all too familiar to Laura. Before the couple turned down the hall toward the foyer, he stopped and leveled a pair of eyes snapping with anger upon Laura. "See to it that you're gone before I return."

A scant few second later, the front door could be heard opening, then closing behind the couple.

Oblivious to Daniel's presence, Laura lifted her head towards the ceiling, blinking her eyes furiously as she rubbed a hand against her stomach, trying to simultaneously will the threatening tears away and offer herself comfort. Finally, swallowing hard, she unconsciously nodded her head, then crossed the room to pick up her purse off the end table where she'd laid it down earlier.

"Thank you for the meal," she told Daniel, stoically, "And the conversation. I'll see myself out." She turned toward the front door, stilling after only a couple of steps when Daniel spoke.

"Odd, I've attributed any number of unattractive qualities to you over the years: Tedious, irksome, intractable, temperamental, bothersome, puritanical…" he mused, aloud. "But never, once, did I attribute to you cowardice." She spun on a heel to face him, the temperament he'd reference threatening to show itself in all its glory.

"Don't you get it, Daniel?' she addressed him. "You've won! He's back with you, as you've always wanted! Shouldn't you be dancing with joy?"

"If only it were as simple as that." He stepped into the kitchen to refresh his wine. "I won't deny I've waited a long time for this day to come," he admitted, as he returned to the living room. "A talent like Harry's is exceedingly rare, and there was a time we could have taken the world by storm," he gesticulated enthusiastically with a hand. "But, alas, his heart's no longer in the game." His eyes met hers and he raised a pointed brow at her, "It's with you."

"I'd come to believe it was," she answered stoically. "But every season comes to an end, and so, it seems, has ours. Goodnight, Mr. Chalmers." She again turned and began walking to the door, when once more his words froze her in place.

"He loves you, Laura." Her back stiffened, and her fists clenched at her sides at his words.

"That's awfully presumptuous of you, Mr. Chalmers. He's never said as much to me," she countered, stiffly.

"It would take a tremendous amount of courage for Harry to make such an admission… even to himself," Daniel reflected, sadly, as he trekked across the room to stare out at the water, glass of wine still in hand. "If I've done Harry an injustice, it was by allowing him to believe love is little more than a fallacy." She whirled to face the man.

"Why? To what end?" she demanded to know.

"Because I want nothing more for the boy than for him to be happy," he answered, honestly.

"And you thought the way to do that was to teach him love is a lie?" she asked, flabbergasted.

"Or crippling," he answered, sadly. "By the time I pulled him from the streets, he'd already spent a lifetime of being turned away by the very people who claimed to love him. In 'The Life', love is a luxury you cannot afford, as it will be used by others to manipulate you for their own means." He glanced at her, and simply said, "Anna," before continuing on. "And should you dare to defy the odds, to believe love just might be possible, after all, it can be cruelly torn from your hands, leaving you only a shell of the person you were before." She was shocked by the grief she saw flash across his face. Her face softened, and she tilted her head.

"Speaking from experience?" she quietly inquired. In the blink of an eye, his genial affect returned.

"A story for another day," he dismissed, as he approached her. Sitting down his wine glass on the end table, he took her hand in his. "You're a lovely young woman, Laura. If you love him, as I believe you do, stay and fight for him in a way no one, other than myself, has ever done before. Fight to _keep him._ " He patted her hand, then released it and picked back up his glass of wine. She stared at him with lips parted by surprise.

"I never expected you, of all people, to encourage me to fight to bring him home." It was a stunning turn of events, given their history of competing for Mr. Steele/Harry.

"I want my boy to be happy," he reiterated his earlier statement. "As it happens, the only time in nearly twenty years that I've seen him truly content is during these past years when he was with you." She searched his faced at length, looking for any sign of insincerity and found none.

"Alright," she agreed, drawing out the word, emphasizing she was still not certain if staying was worth the risk of further angering Remington. Identifying that uncertainty for what it was, he decided to double-down, insuring that she wouldn't flee.

"Excellent. Then while we wait, I'll whip us up a spot of dessert while regaling you with tales of Harry's exploits as a youth."

Well, how could she resist that?

* * *

Remington accepted Felicia's offer of the key to her suite, like the gentleman Daniel had raised him to be. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open, then held out an arm indicating she should precede him. The view of the Mediterranean outside the French doors was dazzling, eliciting a low whistle of approval from him while she shrugged off her wrap and draped it over a chair.

"Exceptional accommodations, Felicia," he acknowledged.

"Aren't they, though?" she agreed. "I've had a run of good luck of late, and should Daniel and my little venture go as planned, I'll be able to enjoy the finer things for some time to come." She stepped to him and slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders. "And speaking of enjoyment…" She tangled her fingers in his hair, and urged his head downwards.

It was, in the end, he who initiated the kiss and he found little had changed over the years in the manner Felicia returned the kiss. Felicia enjoyed, demanded, an erotic edge to a kiss. She never needed to be coaxed to open to him… in fact, it was, as often as not, her tongue that was first to hint, to enter. All the while, her hands would be on the move, the kiss nothing more than a part of the foreplay.

One of her hands trailed over his chest, around his waist then downwards to stroke a cheek of his bum, as if proving his point for him.

With Felicia, it was all about _the sex_. Sex, for-nothing-but-the-pleasure-of-it, sex. No commitments. No promises of tomorrow. If she were unencumbered, as was he, and they happened to be in the same niche of the continent at the time? Well, a fast shag – or perhaps a few hours of shagging- then a kiss on the lips and a goodbye.

God, there were times he sorely missed those days of bedding a couple women a week, with the understanding it was sex, for-nothing-but-the-pleasure-of-it, sex. It had been so… simple… then.

He shrugged out of his jacket, and tossed it on a nearby chair, then covered her lips with his again.

Kissing Laura wasn't about sex. It was about needing to connect, about checking in – yes, there were still numerous obstacles and barriers to be overcome, but they both wished to continue to try. Kissing her was about finesse, tenderness, whisper soft caresses of her neck with a hand or her cheek with a thumb. Kissing her heated his blood, warmed his heart, and made some place deep within him ache from pure happiness.

He'd been surprised to find, after they'd crossed that line from friends to lovers, that he was worried the nature of those kisses might change, that they'd be more about sex, and less about the connection. He'd been delighted to discover they had not. If anything, those kisses had become all the richer, all the more sweet.

God, he missed kissing her, had once been able to while away a good portion of an afternoon, having a bit of a game with himself, seeing how often, and under how many different circumstances, he might get her into a clinch.

Angry with himself for his train of thought, his hands reached for his tie, tugging it off and tossing it onto the chair, Felicia's hands immediately going to the buttons of his shirt, releasing one after another. Brushing his shirt open, her hands appreciated his torso.

"Delicious, as ever," she hummed appreciatively as her mouth roamed over his shoulder and her hand journeyed further south to slip beneath the waistband of his pants and briefs. Lightly embracing her around her shoulders, his head fell backwards and his eyes closed when she took his burgeoning erection in hand.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

With a playfulness he didn't feel, Remington lightly swatted Felicia on a cheek of her bare bottom. Without asking or even a curious look, she flopped down on the bed next to him on her side and stretched, a cat-that-at-the-canary look upon her face. Rolling to his side, he sat up on the side of the bed, and raked his hands through his hair. Plucking a Kleenex from the box on the bedside table, he attended to a bit of housekeeping before dropping tissue and condom into the wastebasket.

"You've still the stamina of a God, Michael," Felicia praised, her eyes freely roaming over his sleek body. "Learned a new trick or two, as well, I believe since last we shagged." From Felicia, this was a compliment, and he took it as such.

"It _has_ been more than six years, Felicia," he reminded her, with a smile he didn't feel. "I should hope my repertoire would expand over that time. I could say the same of yours." Sheathed as praise it was anything but. She took it as he'd intended her to. She dropped to her back, stretching again, this time arching her back.

"Yes, but how long is it now that you've been with dowdy, little Lisa?" she questioned. Pressing up on an elbow, she studied his face as she spoke. "Either you finally lured her into your bed, and she's quite the _vixen…_ " she said the word with relish "…between the sheets – something I can't begin to fathom – or…" she wagged a playful, approving finger at him, a coy smile on her face "…you've been a naughty, naughty boy and haven't been as faithful to Lisa as she demands." She saw the flash of anger that darted through his eyes, but his smile never faltered.

"Laura and I never laid claim to one another," he dismissed, as he pulled on first underwear, then pants, zipping them but leaving them unbuttoned as he shrugged into his shirt.

"You're welcome to shower, if you'd like," she swiped a careless hand in the direction of the bathroom door. It was a gesture she wasn't inclined to offer most men who passed through her boudoir. No, she was very much like Michael in this respect: A bit of fun then an adieu… providing of course the seduction had been part of a grander scheme.

"Thanks, but no. Daniel wasn't feeling well this evening, if you recall. I'd like to look in on him." She heaved a sigh.

"I do hope whatever it is he's come down with won't interfere with our plans." He looked back over his shoulder at her, as he pulled on his socks. A typical remark for Felicia: Always looking out after her own interests, first and foremost. It was one of her traits that, on occasion had bemused him, while at other times he'd found distasteful.

"I've never known the old man not to rally when the occasion arrives." With a shrug of his shoulders, he stood and slipped his feet into his shoes. "Keep the faith," he patted her on the hip when she rolled to face him. "Bye, now." He lifted her hand and lay a peck against the back of it, then picked up his jacket and tie and turned for the door.

"Oh, darling. Why don't we plan for an encore for tomorrow night," she invited, giving him her most sultry smile.

"As enjoyable as that might be, I'm afraid I can't. I've a couple details to take care of tomorrow, and then I'll be on my way. Perhaps the next time our paths cross." With a wink and a smile, he opened the door and slipped out.

Felicia flopped to her back with a frown. Despite the time he'd spent in LA which spoke otherwise, the man hadn't changed at all. He was a delicious lover and always quite the gentleman unless the occasion demanded otherwise…

And he still moved on to new shores when he'd either tired of a locale or it had gotten too hot for him to remain.

She suspected his departure could be attributed to the latter, this time around.

How _had_ little Lisa gotten him to stick around for so long? The question both intrigued and irritated her.

She shrugged the thought off, deciding to concentrate on much more pleasurable matters. Her fingers slipped between her legs and she closed her eyes, recalling each touch of Michael's hands and mouth upon her skin.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"…Hair worn on the long side. Oh, I knew he shaved, else wise his beard would have been much thicker than he ever wore it—"

"Beard?" Laura questioned, from where she was curled up in the corner of the sofa, a mug of steaming tea in hand. "Wasn't he only _fourteen_?" Daniel shrugged a shoulder from where he sat in a nearby chair, an ankle lying across a knee, as he sipped at a brandy.

"As best he could recall," he confirmed. "The boy came into his own early. Oh, he never wore his beard long, just scraggly, and it wasn't near as thick as it is now, but that he had one at all only helped his cause."

"His cause?" She peered at him over the rim of the mug as she took a sip of the tea.

"The most dangerous of the degenerates fancy the young," he bluntly explained. "He lost their interest, and instead caught the eye of the fairer sex. When nights were particularly brutal, he could always find a warm bed to take shelter in, perhaps a fresh meal."

"That's horrible!" she proclaimed. "He was just a child!"

"He wasn't selling himself, my dear, if that's what you're thinking," he clarified. "He merely did what he needed to survive, while enjoying himself along the way."

"The point is, he shouldn't have had to do _anything_ to _survive_!" He hummed in answer.

"On that point, we agree. Now, where were we?" he tried to recall. "Ah, yes. Harry was – shall we say, reluctant – to reinvent himself," he waved a hand in the air. "Oh, he was more than willing to take advantage of a bed of his own, regular meals, instruction, even, on the finer aspects of picking but—"

He stayed his words when he heard the front door close. Across from him, Laura straightened where she sat, and with concerted effort, blanked her face.

* * *

Remington had known before coming through the door, of course, that Laura was still there. After all, it didn't take a detective to figure it out, given the rental car still parked in the drive. As he closed the door, he looked left to the stairs that would take him his to his room, then down the short hall which would open into main living area.

She'd have to wait, whether she liked it or not.

Not that he gave a damn either way.

Right now, he wanted a hot shower and a cold, stiff drink… in that order.

When he reached his room, he engaged the lock upon his door, an action that was utterly laughable once he thought about it. Laura was a gifted lock-picker, and the knob on the door was more of a courtesy than anything else.

Stripped down, he turned on the shower, then examined himself in the bathroom mirror. Felicia had been enthusiastic, bordering on aggressive and territorial at times, as the hickey on his neck and line of scratches on his shoulders and lower back attested. Rough sex was not his cup of tea. He felt no need to dominate or to be dominated and he certainly wasn't into pain. He wondered when sex had traipsed into that territory Felicia. Not that it particularly mattered, as he had no intention of sampling those hard edged wares again.

He had, after all, accomplished what he'd set out to do and Felicia didn't give a damn what his motives had been, so long as he'd pleasured her.

He drew in a sharp breath when the spray of water hit his shoulders, confirming the skin had been broken a place or two. He swore beneath his breath, conceding it had probably been his due – karma's expedient response to his impulsive, priggish behavior.

Still, there was a certain satisfaction to be had. Since she'd left him, the images of that Westfield bloke kissing Laura, touching her, feeling her legs wrapped around him as she…

He raked his fingers through his wet hair, forcing his breathing to slow.

The images ripped at his heart, cut at his very soul, each time they came to him… and they had come countless times each day.

There was not a doubt in his mind Laura knew what he was about with Felicia that evening. He'd intended for her to know. He hoped when she thought of him, she was plagued by the same images as he.

If she thought of him, at all.

But if she did, by God he hoped each image cut at her just a tenth as much as his own thoughts did at him.

Only then would she know a touch of the hell he'd been living in these last weeks.

It was all he had.

* * *

"… _ **you've been a naughty, naughty boy and haven't been as faithful to Lisa as she demands."**_

* * *

The memory, when it came, earned a sharp bark of sardonic laughter.

Hadn't that always been everyone's opinion? He'd spent a lifetime avoiding commitment like the proverbial plague. Felicia, the occasional playmate and Anna, who'd meant far, far more to him, were the exceptions, not the rules. One evening, never to be repeated, after which he would be gone by the time the sun rose. _Of course,_ Felicia had assumed it was he who had strayed. Hadn't Daniel predicted for years that it would be he who left? Who'd assumed exactly that when he'd arrived here in Cannes, his life in LA left behind?

* * *

"… _ **little Linda finally allowed you to soil her pristine linens, satisfying your curiosity…"**_

* * *

But, as he'd told Daniel, it had been he that had gone all in, while it was Laura who'd quit the table.

Turning off the water, he stepped from the shower and reached for a towel.

The irony was not lost on him.

* * *

 _ **"You want guarantees."**_

 _ **"And you can't give them."**_

 _ **"It seems we have an awfully long way to go."**_

* * *

It hadn't even occurred to him, until it was over, that she'd always required some type of guarantee from him to move forward, yet she'd never given one to him.

He'd just assumed.

Another dry laugh escaped past his lips, as he examined his face and decided to leave his whiskers grow. Tomorrow, he'd acquire a new passport, and a different look might benefit him. After pulling a comb through his hair, he hung the towel on the rack to dry, then stepped into his room to find something to wear.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Mentally, Laura paced the room, although in reality she still sat in the corner of the couch, her nearly empty mug of tea held between her hands. The moment they'd heard the front door close, Daniel had deftly changed topics from 'Harry's' youth to stories of his world travels… A topic he'd been devotedly married to ever since. With a downward cast of her eyes towards her wrist, she noted Remington had been back for nearly forty-minutes, yet still hadn't made an appearance.

She had no idea what to do. She'd already sacrificed a great deal of her pride by flying halfway around the world to find him, then had given up another healthy portion while he'd stood in this very room flirting with Felicia. She didn't know if she had it in her to give up yet more by going to him.

Especially knowing where he'd been, with whom and what they'd been doing all this time. Her stomach flip-flopped and she would swear her skin had a green tint to it, when the image of him… doing… with _her…_ traipsed through her mind. Without a conscious decision, she set the now empty mug on a coaster then rose from the couch while reaching for her purse.

"I won't pretend to know precisely what's happened…" Daniel's voice broke through her daze "But, knowing Harry as I do, you won't get another chance should you leave." She sat back heavily, and lifted a pair of fingers to her brow.

"He _talked_ to you?" she couldn't help asking, then silently berated herself for doing so. _Of course,_ Rem… Mr… Har… _he'd_ told his old mentor what had happened between them – the two were thick as thieves, after all. Only… if he had… why was Daniel going out of his way to keep her there?

"You know how Harry is when it comes to such things," he shrugged. "But enough to know that he believes he gambled and lost." He cocked his brows meaningfully at her as he stood and reached for her cup, every playing the gracious host. "Does he have reason to believe that to be so?" Clearly, he'd momentarily forgotten the woman he asked the question of was as cagey as his protégé when it came to discussing private matters.

"Sometimes people have every reason to believe something happened, even though it never actually came to pass," she replied. His lips quirked at the corners. Presenting her with a fresh cup of tea, he resumed his seat. Given she appeared to have relaxed enough to stay, he decided returning to the tales of his travel was the best course.

"There's a most stunning island by the name Tetiaroa in French Polynesia. While posing as a Duke, I became involved with a young woman, a wealthy descendent from Tahitian royalty. The island was a favored retreat of her—"

"Daniel, a moment if you don't mind," Remington requested as he strode through the room towards the bar, without so much as acknowledging Laura's presence.

"Of course, my boy. Anything you wish," Daniel replied jovially. He and Laura simultaneously stood.

"I'll just step out to give you privacy," she offered. He glanced towards Remington.

"I'm sure that would be most appreciated," he agreed. "Might I suggest the view from the balcony? The boats bobbing on the water under the light from the moon and the stars is quite… magnificent." With a nod of her head, she left the room, as Daniel crossed the room to where Remington stood. Picking up the decanter of brandy, he refreshed his snifter.

"You seem to have made a miraculous recovery," Remington noted, sarcasm lacing the words.

"I attribute it to the brandy, a cure my own mother once swore by." Daniel answered with a lift of his brows and the snifter simultaneously.

"Enough of the rubbish, Daniel," Remington demanded. "What exactly is it that you're up to?" Daniel gave him a look of feigned confusion.

"Up to, my boy?" Remington scowled.

"Cut it out. You've never cared for Laura, yet I find you first serving her dinner and now sitting about sipping tea and brandy as though the two of you are old mates catching up. What's your angle?"

"My angle?"

"Daniel…" Remington growled in warning.

"I just want what's best for you, Harry," Daniel told him, giving up the act. "You'll need a clear head for the job a—"

"I've already told you, Daniel, I've no interest in The Life any longer. In fact, I plan to be on my way tomorrow." Daniel let that announcement slide, for now.

"All the better that Linda is here, then. Once you've had it out, you can finally close the chapter on that part of your life, and begin anew without dragging old baggage with you."

Remington didn't believe the man for an instant, but understood pursuing whatever mischief Daniel was up to would be a moot point. Knocking back the remainder of the scotch in his glass, he splashed in two more fingers than stared at the open doorway to the balcony for several long ticks of the clock. Finally, after drawing in a deep breath and releasing it in a whoosh, he walked towards the doors.

* * *

What _had she been thinking_? What had ever compelled her to believe she was up to the imminent conversation she and Mr… Rem… Har… _he_ were going to have? Setting the mug of tea down on the railing, she wrung her hands, nervously.

When she'd set out to find him, she hadn't fooled herself into believing that he'd welcome her with open arms, proclaiming all had been forgiven. No, she'd inadvertently wounded him enough times over the years to know his self-preservation skills were as healthy as her own. It would take a gentle touch, the right words, to find a chink in the self-protective armor he'd have shielded himself with. But once she had, forgiveness for her moment of panic would come, as it had for all her other missteps and wrong turns in the past.

What she hadn't anticipated was the white hot fury swirling around him and the icy looks of utter disdain that accompanied it. This was a side of him with which she had little familiarity. Oh, she seen brief flashes of the anger he was capable of – his interactions with both the morgue attendant after Wallace's death and Stuart Thorpe after a bomb had been set in her house readily came to mind. But that anger had never been directed at her. And now that it was?

She had no idea how she'd get through to him. If he couldn't stand to be in the same room as her, it was a relative certainty that he wouldn't allow her to get close enough to touch him. Hell, the man wouldn't even deign to look at her.

"You have two minutes," a hard voice announced behind her. Unseen, she closed her eyes and scrunched her face, then turned to face him.

"We need to talk. To clear the air between us, to—" His brittle laugh, had her encircling herself with her arms.

"Oh, I think you were _crystal clear_ the last time we spoke." He lifted his watch, made a display at looking at its face. "Time's ticking." She scrambled for something, anything, to say while she gathered her thoughts.

"It didn't take you long to return to the life," she noted quietly, then dropped her eyes, when he leveled a thunderous look upon her.

"Ah, of course. How foolish of me not to have known what it was you wish to speak of," he noted with derision. The muscle in his cheek twitched and his chest rose and fell, as he fought to keep hold of his temper. "Well, rest your pretty little mind, Miss Holt. I've no intention of doing anything that might impugn the reputation of your mythical Remington Steele. After all, he may have been your creation, but he was _my_ masterpiece." He raised his scotch in a mock toast, then drank down the amber liquid, slamming the empty glass upon a nearby table. "You can see yourself out." With that, he descended the stairs to the beach, as Laura's own temper flared. With a growl of frustration, she threw up her hands and followed on his heels.

"Oh, for God's sake! I didn't come here because of the _mythical Remington Steele,_ " she shouted at his back. "I came _for you._ "

"Tired of your senatorial candidate already, have you?" he shouted over his shoulder at her, as she picked up her pace until she kept stride next to him. "I suppose I should take some comfort in knowing no one can live up to your rigid standards. What egregious act was it he committed? Dozed off at an inopportune time? Jaywalked? Fudged his tax return? Failed to satisfy you between the sheets?"

"You seriously can't believe you stand on morally higher ground than I after tonight!" she shot back.

"You're damned right I do. You bloody well left my bed to climb into another man's!" he bellowed. Spinning on his heel he walked in the direction of the house. She had to scramble to turn around and keep up with him.

"And you screwed Felicia tonight to spite me! So even if I had, it would seem to me that the playing field's been leveled." She cut a hand across her body in emphasis. He lifted his arm and looked at his watch.

"You've a minute left, Miss Holt. I'd suggest…"

She didn't hear the rest of whatever he was saying. Her head roared with white noise, drowning out everything but her thoughts. The reminder that she was on a timer had left her aghast with insult… but it was catching a glimpse of the hickey on his neck that had left her breathing shallowly, her hands flinching at her sides. It had been one thing to think of Felicia and him in bed together in the abstract, but the visible proof of the act had sent images running through her mind… and left her feeling as though she'd been punched in the gut.

It was an all too familiar sensation. How many times over the years had she felt as though the breath had been knocked right out of her, because of something he'd either said, or had, more likely, done? How many times had she forgiven him with little to no impunity? And here she was, after having flown halfway around the world, for…

"I can't do this," she said, quietly, unaware she'd even spoken.

"What? Leave? Last I saw, as you were walking out my flat's door, you were well versed—"

"I can't do this anymore," she said again, interrupting him. "What am I doing?" she asked no one in particular, her voice rising, as she threw up her hands in frustration. "How many times, Mr.-… Reming-… Har-…" she growled, vexed, "Whatever name it is you want to be called?"

"How many times what?" he snapped.

"How many times have I fought for you? How many times have I put _everything I have_ on the line for you? How many times have I compromised _who_ and _what_ I am, in order to keep you safe?" She drew in a shuddering breath as a drop of wetness slipped, unnoticed, down her cheek. "And here I am, again, halfway around the world, fighting for you. I have spent _weeks_ beating myself up for being what you've always encouraged me to be: human." She wrapped one arm around herself while she swiped at her eyes with the fingertips of her other hand. "I don't know what I thought it would be like... I don't know that I ever thought about it at all, as a matter of fact, given…" She shook her head and drew in a strained breath, began to babble around her sobs. "Whatever I thought, I hadn't expected… We were spending all our time together… you were saying things like… that…but still hadn't told… I didn't know… I was so… happy… out of control… terrified…"

She wiped viciously at her face, as he fought the impulse to reach for her. He'd never seen her have a go at it like this, not even the night Veckmer had seen her house leveled. It wrenched his heart, but he couldn't get past his own pain to find a way to ease hers. Tugging one hand through his hair, he shifted uncomfortably as he shoved his other hand in his pocket. She forced herself to calm, to speak coherently, as her tears continued to well and fall, unwelcomed.

"You left," she accused. "I came back and you were _gone!_ "

"I had no reason to stay."

"And that's my point," she sniffed, raising and dropping her hand. "When have you _ever_ fought for me? You could have come after me that night, any number of times: At your flat, at my loft, at the airport. But you didn't. Because whatever it was I'd _thought_ we had together was not meaningful enough _to you_ to sacrifice your pride for." She pressed her fingers to her eyes, and while shaking her head, laughed sadly. "Yet, here I am, just as I was that night," her voice cracked, as another sob pushed its way past her lips, "Sacrificing _my pride_ , by coming here, where you brush me off, _humiliate me_ by making me wait as you _screw_ Felicia just so that I can _apologize to you_ and _beg_ you to come home because I lo—" She shook her head, refusing to finish that thought. He'd had enough and reached out a hand towards her.

"Laura—"

"Don't!" she bit out, jerking a step backwards to avoid his touch. Drawing a deep breath, with a will of steel she forced the tears to stop, and she pulled herself up to her full height as she began to back towards the stairs of Daniel's house.

"I can't do this anymore. I _won't_ keep fighting for someone who can't be bothered to fight for me," she informed him, resolutely. She turned and began ascending the steps, stopping midway up. "In a way, this is better," she said, thoughtfully. "Had this gone the way I'd hope, I don't know if I'd really ever have known the truth." She drew in a breath and nodded to herself. "I'm pregnant."

He stumbled as though he'd taken a physical blow and his head roared has he grabbed for the balustrade of the stairs to prevent himself from falling.

"What did you say?" he asked, hoarsely. He may as well not have bothered, because he couldn't make sense of what she was saying through the buzzing in his head.

"I told you we needed to talk," she reminded him quietly. "I'm pregnant. Whether I like it or not, whether or not it's the 'it' thing to think or do, I thought you should have the right to weigh-in on…" she shuddered, and forced the words past her lips, "…the options. If you even want to weigh-in, that is, because abstaining would be an option as well."

"Get out," he ground out, so quietly she barely heard it.

It all suddenly made sense, why she was here. What a buggering egit he'd been to allow some small part of himself to believe, if only for an instant, that perhaps he'd truly meant enough to her – him, not the mythical Remington Steele – that she'd come to bring him home. Oh, she'd put on a convincing act with that sob show of hers, but she'd overplayed her hand. She hadn't come for him at all. She'd found herself pregnant by the man she'd left him for and bloke had left her high-and-dry. The bloody woman knew him better than anyone else upon the planet, and could be assured he'd never abandon a child of his, no matter the circumstances of its birth. Pawn the kid off as his, problem solved.

"Get out," he roared, when she didn't move. With a regal nod of her head, she began climbing upwards again, as she spoke.

"There's only ten more days before a decision has to be made. If I don't hear from you by the end of the week, I'll conclude you don't wish to be involved in the decision." She walked across the balcony to the doors to the living room, then turned to look down towards him, where he still stood with his feet in the sand and his hand on the balustrade.

Somewhere in the back of her head, she recognized that this might be the last time she ever saw him. Now, when he gave her such a cold look of loathing and derision, it sent a shiver down her spine.

"Get out," he rasped again.

Her brow crinkled, her lips trembled and she felt the moisture forming in her eyes again. Nevertheless, she managed one, final nod, before she turned and disappeared into the house. She didn't even pause as she swept her purse off the end table, and strode through the house to the front door, closing it quietly behind herself when she left.

Daniel's head swiveled back and forth between the front door and the balcony from where he stood by the kitchen. He'd been drawn from his room when he'd heard Harry shout 'Get out!' Given Harry and Linda hadn't strolled out the door, arm-in-arm, it was a safe bet his plan had gone awry.

And until he knew exactly how it had gone wrong, he wouldn't be able to put in place the next step in his plan.

With a put upon sigh, he reached for a snifter and the brandy, then, with drink in hand, sat on the sofa facing the balcony and waited for Harry to return.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

When Laura had left Daniel's house, she hadn't even hesitated. Stopping at a gas station she bought a map, fueled up the car, then had parked the car in front of a bank of payphones. By the time she'd hung up, she had reserved herself a seat in coach for a five a.m. flight to London. Once there, she'd worry about booking the rest of her flight home.

She'd intended to nap during the two hour flight, but had found that an impossibility.

Only three days ago, the doctor had confirmed her pregnancy. The news, although expected given the readout on the little plastic wand the night before, had been very much unwelcome. She hadn't wanted this. She wasn't ready for this. It was the wrong time for this.

Then, someone just… flipped a switch. That switch, of course, being the ones used to turn on the sonogram and Doppler and that someone, of course, being the doctor.

And, as a thrum-thrum-thrum filled the air… there it was, in grainy black and white: absolute, irrefutable proof that this was real. A baby. _Their_ baby. No matter how many times she closed her eyes, then opened them again or how many times she rubbed at them, that white lima bean was still there, inside the eggplant shaped black space. No matter if she drew a breath or not, that steady thrum-thrum-thrum continued on.

Yet, It had still taken her a half dozen times of looking from screen to her stomach to convince herself that little being was inside of her and it was that little being's heart beat surrounding them in the room.

 _A mother._

On the way to LAX she'd stopped at a bookstore along the route, and had picked up a book whose cover promised to tell the truth about the good, bad and ugly of pregnancy. She'd slipped that book into her purse, next to the pamphlet from her doctor which explained her options…where they'd waited together for the right time to arrive.

On the flight from Cannes to London, that time had arrived, and before she could read the second, she had to address the first.

The pamphlet had provided the three options she'd expected, and of those three, one was immediately discarded: adoption. While the institution was a valuable one for both those unprepared to be a parent and those wishing desperately to become one, Remington was a living example of the flaws within the system. She'd never have a moment of peace again wondering if it was _their_ child who fell through the cracks this time.

No, adoption was not an option, at all.

And, by the time the bell overhead dinged and the fasten seat belt indicator lit, she'd discarded a second option. In principle, she believed a woman had the right to decide what happened to their body. She'd celebrated the passing of _Roe v. Wade_ when she was in high school as landmark legislation in women's rights. She'd cheered the Court's ruling in _Planned Parenthood v Danforth_ , when it had ruled requiring a woman to obtain her husband's permission for an abortion as unconstitutional.

Yes, in theory she believed in a woman's right to choose, but in reality, as it turned out, she'd discovered it was not a choice for her, at all. Planned or not, ready or not, the little life growing within had become far more than a concept to her in the doctor's office that day. The baby would be a piece of herself… a piece of the man she'd first become friends with, then partners, and somewhere along the way, had fallen hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with.

How different it all might have been had she not given in to her doubts and fears… if he hadn't left.

As she disembarked the first plane, purchased a ticket for the next, then waited for that flight to depart, she allowed herself to indulge her fantasies of those what might have been's. He would have been a remarkable father, with his boundless energy, his interminable knowledge, and the joi de vive an insufferable, unforgiveable childhood hadn't been able to rob him of. They would have balanced one another perfectly as parents, much as they balanced one another perfectly as partners. And that balance would have been sorely needed, as he would have spoiled his child endlessly, making certain they grew up never feeling they'd been robbed of so much as a single moment of childhood joy. It would have taken her firm hand, her logic, to limit his indulgences, to remind him what any child needed most was love and security.

But those fantasies were just that: fantasies. The look on his face, in his eyes, the way he'd ordered her to get out had given certainty to only one part of the future: She'd have find that balance, to supply that love and security, all on her own.

Thus, once the plane has ascended into foggy, dismal skies over London, she removed the book she'd purchased from her purse along with memo pad and pen. She was about to begin a new chapter in her life, a whole new reality she'd never predicted.


End file.
